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The 
Lure  of  the  Desert  Land 

and  Other  Poems 


BY 

MADGE  MORRIS 

(Mrs.  Harr  Wagner) 


SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL: 

HARR  WAGNER  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

191? 


Dedicated  to  Harr  Wagner 


349230 


Copyrighted,  191? 
MADGE  MORRIS  WAGNER 


JOAQUIN  MILLER'S  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  AUTHOR 

"And  some  Orient  dawn  had  found  me 
Kneeling  at  the  house  of  fame." 

Fame  found  Madge  Morris  Wagner  in  the  blazing 
Colorado  desert,  her  fingers  on  the  pulse  of  Nature. 
Or,  at  least,  thither  sent  Lippincotts  of  Philadelphia  to 
find  her  and  persuade  her  to  speak  through  them  to 
the  world.  And  this  is  what  she  said,  like  all  who  are 
truly  great  teachers,  making  a  text  of  the  place  and 
the  time: 

TO  THE  COLORADO  DESERT 

Thou  brown,  bare-breasted,  voiceless  mystery, 

Hot  sphinx  of  nature,  cactus,  crowned,  what  hast  thou 

done? 
Unclothed    and    mute    as    when    the    groans    of    chaos 

turned 

Thy  naked  burning  bosom  to  the  sun. 
The  mountain  silences  have  speech,  the  rivers  sing. 
Thou  answerest  never  unto  anything. 
Pink-throated  lizards  pant  in  thy  slim  shade; 
The  horned  toad  runs  rustling  in  the  heat; 
The  shadowy  gray  coyote,  born  afraid, 
Steals  to  some  brackish  spring  and  laps,  and  prowls 
Away;    and    howls,    and    howls   and    howls    and    howls, 
Until  the  solitude  is  shaken  with  an  added  loneliness. 
Thy  sharp  mescal  shoots  up  a  giant  stalk, 
Its  century  of  yearning,  to  the  sunburnt  skies, 
And  drips  rare  honey  from  the  lips 
Of  yellow  waxen  flowers,  and  dies. 

Some  lengthwise  sun-dried  shapes  with  feet  and  hands 
And   thirsty  mouths  pressed   on   the   sweltering  sands, 
Mark  here  and  there  a  gruesome  graveless  spot 
Where  some  one  drank  thy  scorching  hotness,  and  is 

not. 
God  must  have  made  thee  in  his  anger,  and  forgot. 

Not  since  I  can  remember  have  I  heard  a  voice  so 
true  as  this.  It  is  like  the  sublime  and  solemn  bass 
of  St.  John.  It  is  even  John  the  Baptist  crying  in  the 
wilderness. 

Indeed,  I  doubt  if  you  will  find  anything  more  ter 
ribly  truthful  and  fearfully  sublime  this  side  of  Job 
than  this  one  lone,  lorn  cry  from  the  desert.  A  photo- 


graph,  even  were  such  a  thing  possible,  could  not  be 
more  ghastly  and  ghastly  exact.  It  is  true  poetry,  and 
therefore  more  really  true  than  the  ordinary  forms  of 
truth.  For  truth  can  only  be  told  entirely  by  figures 
of  speech — poetry.  There  are  not  words  enough  in  all 
the  languages  of  this  world  to  tell  even  the  simplest 
truth  exactly,  even  if  there  were  time  enough  in  the 
world.  We  must  depend  upon  figures  of  speech,  as 
did  the  seers  of  the  Orient,  for  the  exact  truth.  But 
the  figures  must  be  true,  stately,  majestic,  impressive. 
This  is  poetry;  and  true  poetry  is  in  this  sense  not 
only  the  highest  form  of  truth,  but  it  is  the  only  real 
truth  that  is  uttered.  When  the  world  comes  to  com 
prehend  poetry  it  will  have  a  great  deal  more  truth, 
less  quibbling  about  words,  legal  technicalities,  legal 
lies. 

Turn  back  and  read  this  poem  on  the  Colorado 
Desert  again,  please.  You  can  read  it  with  profit  and 
a  certain  sort  of  solemn  pleasure  a  dozen  times.  There 
are  lines  here  that  are  texts,  sermons. 

"God  must  have  made   thee   in   his  anger  and 
forgot." 

Madge  Morris  Wagner  has  been  all  her  life  with  us 
out  here  on  the  great  seabank  I  believe;  I  know  her 
father,  Morris  Hilyard,  was  a  Virginian.  Maybe,  she, 
too,  was  a  Virginian.  I  neither  know  nor  care.  We 
fill  our  books  up  with  the  dates  and  places  of  birth, 
things  that  amount  to  nothing,  and  leave  little  room 
for  deeds  or  utterances. 

What  will  we  do  when  we  come  to  have  24,000  years 
of  history  and  biography  behind  us?  Why,  we  will 
say  as  the  Chinese  say,  "this  poet  lived  in  a  certain 
dynasty  and  said  so  and  so."  That  is  all. 

So  I  shall  proceed  to  say  what  this  strange,  strong 
woman  of  the  desert  has  said  from  out  her  heart  of 
hearts.  For  she  is  a  woman,  a  very  human,  tender 
woman.  And  you  will  concede  before  you  have  done 
reading  the  little  bits  of  her  sweet  soul  which  I  am 
permitted  to  give  you  that  it  is  great  impertinence  in 
me  to  say  much  when  she  is  singing.  And  I  want  you 
to  know  that  these  next  lines  of  hers  are  as  exactly 
true  in  all  respects  as  her  lines  on  the  Colorado  desert. 
Her  only  little  baby  had  gone  away  from  her  out  from 
the  one  narrow  room  to  beyond  the  darkness;  but  in 


the  next  narrow  room,  a  stronger  woman  nursed  and 
rocked  and  cradled  her  stronger  child,  and  kept  rocking 
on  her  heart.  And  so  there  and  then,  out  of  the  agony 
and  desolation,  she  sang,  as  she  sang  only  the  other 
day  from  the  desert. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby — 
Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine — 
And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 
That  round  her  neck  entwine, 
As  she  rocks,  and  rocks  the  baby, 
In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 

Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 

Oh!   I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and  love 

In  the  "baby-bye"  she  hums. 

I  can  see  the  restless  fingers 

Playing  with  "mamma's  rings." 

And  the  sweet  little  ( smiling,  pouting  mouth, 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings, 

As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 

And  I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes,  and  cheeks  and  brow. 

From  her   rocking,   rocking,   rocking! 

I  wonder  would  she  start, 

Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  is  rocking  on  my  heart. 

While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press 

And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness, 

I  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 

For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 


Now  and  then  the  winds  blow  a  leaf  of  hers  from 
the  desert  or  from  San  Diego,  where  she  edits  her 
Golden  Era  Magazine — when  she  can  get  a  cowboy  to 
carry  copy  out  from  the  Colorado  Desert — away  beyond 
the  seas  to  Europe;  but  her  own  country  has  been 
careless  about  her,  save  to  pick  up  her  thoughts  and 
air  them  in  the  poet's  corner  of  the  classics  as  time 
surges  by.  And  she  has  been  and  is  quite  as  careless 
of  the  world;  brave,  bonnie,  beautiful  little  Madge 
Morris. 

Here  are  the  two  extremes  of  song — the  solitude, 
nakedness,  desolation,  mystery  and  awful  death  and 
dearth  of  the  boundless  desert;  and  the  crooning  cradle 
song  the  baby,  whose  utmost  bound  and  limit  of  life 
is  its  mother's  encircling  arms.  She  has  pictured  life 
and  death.  You  can  hear  the  mother  rocking,  rocking. 
You  can  see  the  dead  men  lying  in  the  sands  in  her 
song  of  the  Colorado  Desert  as  you  rarely  see  shapes 
in  any  song. 

"Some   lengthwise    sun-dried    shapes    with    feet 
and  hands." 

And  right  here  I  say  that  the  coyote  is  photographed 
in  a  single  line  more  correctly  than  he  has  yet  been 
described  in  columns. 

I  concede  that  it  is  not  melodious  to  say,  "he  howls 
and  howls  and  howls  and  howls,"  but  then  the  coyote 
is  not  traveling  on  his  notes,  he  is  not  melodious,  he 
simply  howls.  Then  he  howls  more,  then  more  and 
more.  That  is  all.  God  made  him.  Madge  Morris  did 
not  make  him.  She  merely  took  his  photograph,  and 
for  the  first  time  it  ever  was  really  taken. 

In  conclusion  let  me  assure  you  that  Mrs.  Wagner 
has  not  written  of  the  desert  from  a  car  window.  On 
the  contrary  she  knows  and  she  loves  the  desert  as 
a  sailor  knows  and  loves  the  ocean.  Her  tent  is  there 
season  after  season  and  the  mercury  above  par. 

I  think  little  more  need  be  said  here.  Turn  back 
again  and  read  about  the  rocking  of  the  baby.  And  if 
there  are  not  tears  in  your  eyes  and  tenderness  in  your 
heart,  if  you  are  not  better  indeed  for  the  reading  of 
it  in  all  respects,  why  all  that  I  might  say  in  these 
pages  till  the  going  down  of  the  sun  would  neither 
profit  you  nor  please  you. 


TO  MADGE  MORRIS 

(Author   of  "Liberty's    Bell") 

.     .     .     O,  Patriotic  Singer  thou, 
Whose  poems  are  made  up  of  dew  and  fire! 

Thy  song  so  well  of  liberty  hath  told 
That  little  ones,  who  now  its  measures  hear, 
May  one  day  wrench  from  hands  of  tyrants  bold 
The  blessings  that  our  fathers  held  so  dear, 
Their  inspiration  gained  from  strains  that  ring 
Through  Memory's  hall,  thy  song  re-echoing. 

— Mrs.  Carl  Schutze. 


FROM  JAMES  WOODS   DAVIDSON 

(Author  of  "The   Poetry  of  The  Future") 

"I  have  looked  through  Madge  Morris'  poems  with 
great  interest,  and  am  much  pleased  to  find  a  vigor  of 
expression  and  a  rhythmical  resonance  of  word-music 
that  are  altogether  top  rare  in  recent  poetry.  There  is 
also  a  forward  step  in  escaping  from  the  shackles  of 
artificiality  of  our  procrustean  prosodists.  The  poet 
has  caught  some  of  the  spirit  that  breathes  in  the 
'glorious  climate  of  California.'  " 

[Excerpt  from  a  letter  to  Ella  Sterling  Mighels, 
author  of  "The  Story  of  the  Files"  and  other  noted 
Californian  books.] 


TO  MADGE  MORRIS 

(Author  of  "A  Titled  Plebeian") 

These  are  the  songs  the  singer  sings 

(Weird,    grotesque,    and   beautiful   things), 

Whispers   of   sun-skies,  amber-rimmed; 

Echoes  of  Nature,  tear  be-dimmed, 

And  in  and  out  through  the  minor  strain 

Is  woven  a  slender  thread  of  gold, 

Rapture,  passion,   sarcasm,  and  pain, 

All  that  the  burning  words  can  hold, 

As  she  sweeps  the  strings  of  her  magic  lyre, 

And  sings  and  sings  with  her  heart  on  fire. 

— Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe. 


TO  MADGE  MORRIS 

Whose  voice  of  poetic  eloquence 
Appealing  to  the  heart,  and  thence, 
With   strange   sweet  fascination,   still, 
Entrancing  all  my  soul  at  will; 
Holding  before  my  gaze 

Sweet  Nature's  face 
Until  my  heart  would  know  and  feel 
The  secrets  she  would  fain,  reveal. 


— Charles  Grissen. 


0  fire-souled,  fretless  desert,  I  am  come 

Alone,  all  B>earp  hearted,  unto  thee, 
The  world's  falsetto  and  little  thrum 
Still  droning  in  mp  ears. 

1  came  to  claim  thee,  desert, — 

/  am  fan  to  thee. 


INDEX 

Page 

The  Lure  of  the  Desert 1 

<»  Quien  Sabe? 2 

To  the  Colorado  Desert 3 

In  the  Yucca  Land 4 

Tehachapi    6 

My  Heart  and  All  Life's  Sweet  Alluring  Charms....  6 

Rocking  the   Baby 7 

Men  Have  Fought  for  Liberty 8 

Liberty's  Bell  8 

The   Crowning   of   Liberty 12 

The   Passing  of  McKinley 14 

Cuba  16 

What  Has  a  Man  When  It  All  Is  Attained 17 

"He  Hitched  His  Wagon  to  a  Star" 17 

The  Woodsman's   Philosophy 18 

The  Oracle  20 

The  Little  Brown  Bird 22 

A  Stained  Lily  24 

Somebody's  Baby's  Dead 26 

Interregnum  27 

The    Sea   and   the    Wind 27 

Society  28 

An   Empiric 28 

Mother  29 

Dead   Love 30 

Fate 31 

Under  the  Sea  32 

The  Undertone  of  Song 34 

To   a   Mummy 35 

Sappho  to  Phaon 36 

Her  Christmas  Gift 38 

Ah,   Me ! 39 

I  Have  Folded  Them  Up  and  Put  Them  Away 40 

My  Ships  Have  Come  From  the  Sea 42 

Break  Down  the  Door 45 

Easter    Lilies 46 

The  Christmas  Cross  48 

Genesis  49 

A  Thought  50 

A    Mood   50 

All   Hallowe'en   51 

Under  the  Grass  51 

Bendita    52 

I  Wonder  If  Ever  the  Angel  Who  Holds 52 

Toasts    53 

To  Truth    53 

To  Whom  It  May  Concern 53 

To  California    53 

If  I  and  You  No  More  Were  Said 54 

To  You   .  55 


I  N  D  E  X— Continued  Page 

Distance   Is   Cruel 56 

Dead  Days  58 

When  Will  My  Soul  Go 58 

When  the  Roses  Go 59 

Pearlie  Is  Gone  Away 60 

A    Picture 61 

Two  Must  Be  Two 62 

An  Inward  Glance 65 

In  a  Vision 66 

Coronals    68 

Inconsistence  69 

But  One  Little  Stocking  70 

My  Soul  and   1 71 

Across  the  Great  Divide 72 

My   Brother  73 

The  Fairy  of  the   Heights 74 

Valentine 75 

Not    Acclimated 76 

Question    77 

I  Have  Never,  You  Think,  a  Serious  Thought 78 

Unanswered   78 

Query  : 79 

The  Red  Winds  Blow 80 

A  Peace  Conference 84 

California    86 

The  Opening  of  the  California  Poppies 87 

The  Golden  Gate 88 

To  Clara  Shortridge-Foltz 90 

Mount   Whitney   91 

Welcoming  the  G.  A.  R.  to  California 92 

San   Francisco 94 

A  Legend  of  Sutro  Heights 96 

Helen    Hunt   Jackson 101 

In  the  Foothills  of  the  Sierras 102 

The  Wheat  of  San  Joaquin 103 

Thanksgiving  at  Montara 104 

They  All  Are   Kin  to   You 105 

At  San  Diego  106 

The  Last  Priestess  of  the  Sun 109 

The  Builders  109 

Native  Daughters  of  the  Golden  West 110 

Wonderful  Mysterious  Mexico Ill 

Alaska's  Woman  112 

What  Know  You  of  My  Soul's  Inherent  Strife 114 

Songs  That  Have  Been  Set  to  Music 115 

Love's  Way  116 

God  Bless  You  Wherever  You  Are 117 

The   Dryads 1 18 

The  Sign  of  the  Cross  119 

That  Day  in  Texas  120 

Canst  Thou  Not  Hear  Me 121 

Just  This  One  Day 122 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  DESERT  LAND 

Have  you  slept  in  a  tent  alone — a  tent 

Out  under  the  desert  sky — 
Where  a  thousand  thousand  desert  miles 

All  silent  round  you  lie? — 
The  dust  of  the  aeons  of  ages  dead, 

And  the  peoples  that  trampled  by? 

Have  you  looked  in  the  desert's  painted  cup, 
Have  you  smelled  at  dawn  the  wild  sage  musk, 

Have  you  seen  the  lightning  flashing  up 
From  the  ground  in  the  desert  dusk? 

Have  you  heard  the  song  in  the  desert  rain 
(Like  the  undertone  of  a  wordless  rhyme)? 

Have  you  watched  the  glory  of  colors  flame 
In  its  marvel  of  blossom  time? 

Have  you   lain   with   your  face  in  your   hands, 

afraid, 
Face   down  —  flat   down    on   your   face  —  and 

prayed, 
While  the  terrible  sand  storm  whirled  and  swirled 

In  its  soundless  fury,  and  hid  the  world 
And  quenched  the  sun  in  its  yellow  glare — 
Just  you,  and  your  soul,  and  nothing,  there? 

If  you  have,  then  you  know,  for  you've  felt  its 
spell, 

The  lure  of  the  desert  land, 
And  if  you  have  not,  then  I  could  not  tell — 

For  you  could  not  understand. 


The  Lure  of  the  Deseri  Land  and  Other  Poems 


QUIEN   SABE?* 

''Where  do  the  waters  go  that  go 

To  the  sands  of  the  bleached  Majave?" 
I  asked  of  an  ancient  Indian  man 

(Lingering  trace  of  his  vanished  race)  : 
"Do  they  sink  in  the  sand 
To  the  underland?" 

With  never  a  bend  of  his  stately  head, 

Nor  look,  or  the  lurk  of  a  smile,  he  said : 

"cQuien   safceP" 


"Surely  thou  knowest,  thou  primal  man  ! 
Brood  of  the  desert's  birth,  and  ban,  — 
Wise  as  the  rattlesnake,  old  as  the  sun, 
Where  do  the  rivers  run  that  run 
To  the  sands  of  thy  grim  Majave? 

Do  they  sink  in  the  sand 

To  the  underland?  — 
Down  where  the  red  volcano's  glow 
Lieth  await  for  the  underflow? 
Down  where  the  salt-sea  left  its  scum 
When    the    earth    was    void   and    the   deep    was 

dumb?" 


*Who  knows? 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


TO   THE   COLORADO    DESERT 

Thou   brown,    bare-breasted,    voiceless    mystery, 
Hot  sphinx  of  nature,  cactus-crowned,  what  hast 

thou  done? 
Unclothed  and  mute  as  when  the  groans  of  chaos 

turned 

Thy  naked  burning  bosom  to  the  sun. 
The   mountain   silences   have  speech,   the   rivers 

sing. 

Thou  answerest  never  unto  anything. 
Pink-throated  lizards  pant  in  thy  slim  shade; 
The  horned  toad  runs  rustling  in  the  heat; 
The  shadowy  gray  coyote,  born  afraid, 
Steals   to   some   brackish    spring   and   laps,   and 

prowls 
Away;   and   howls,    and   howls    and   howls    and 

howls, 

Until  the  solitude  is  shaken  with  an  added  lone 
liness. 

Thy  sharp  mescal  shoots  up  a  giant  stalk, 
Its  century  of  yearning,  to  the  sunburnt  skies, 
And  drips  rare  honey  from  the  lips 
Of  yellow  waxen  flowers,  and  dies. 
Some  lengthwise  sun-dried  shapes  with  feet  and 

hands 
And  thirsty  mouths   pressed  on   the   sweltering 

sands, 

Mark  here  and  there  a  gruesome  graveless  spot 
Where  some  one   drank   thy  scorching  hotness, 

and  is  not. 
God   must   have   made  thee   in   His   anger,   and 

forgot. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


IN   THE   YUCCA   LAND 

The  rim  of  the  desert  is  the  Yucca  land, 
Behind  it  the  snow-peaked  ranges  stand. 
Beyond  it,  and  out,  the  desert  lies, — 
And  far  as  the  line  of  the  tenting  skies. 
"The  ship  of  the  desert"  sails  there  at  dawn 
In  the  swift  mirage;  and  there,  up-drawn 
From  violet  seas,  in  the  sunrise  glow 
Are  the  coral  reefs  the  mermen  know; 
And  the  perfumed   plains   where   the   iris   grow. 
Out  there  where  the  web  of  the  gossamer  flies 
The  shoals  of  the  purple  islands  rise, 
Out  there  are  the  pink  gray  mists  unrolled, 
And  the  sun  goes  down  on  a  world  of  gold, 
In  the  Yucca  land. 

The  grimness  of  time,  is  the  Yucca  land, 
When  twilight  reaches  her  specter  hand, 
When  the  moon  bends  down,  a  living  thing, 
And  the  midnight  stars  are  whispering! 
The  Yucca  glades  are  peopled,  then, 
With  naiads  and  gnomes  and  the  ghosts  of  men ; 
From  the  inner  earth,  from  the  Everywhere, 
They  come,  and  they  wralk  in  the  moonlight  there. 
The  dryads  step  from  the  Yucca  trees 
And  lean  white  arms  on  the  wavering  breeze. 
There,  a  pallid  priestness  counts  her  beads, 
Yon  arch  to  a  Druid  temple  leads. 
Aye ;  and  yonder  Yucca,  whose  grim  shape  warns, 
Is  the  cross  of  Him,  and  His  crown  of  thorns. 
There  are  stealthy  shadows,  a  phantom  whir — 
The  night  vibrates  with  a  soundless  stir; 
And  oh,  the  silence !  so  tense,  so  terse, 
You  can  hear  the  heart  of  the  Universe. 
The  desert  its  mystery  unbars 
To  you  and  the  moon  and  the  whispering  stars, 
In  the  Yucca  land. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


The  newness  of  earth,  is  the  Yucca  land, 
The  tang  of  the  first-made  gleam  of  sand, 
Not  ever  a  plow  profaned  its  sod, — 
The  world  is  so  new  you  could  talk  with  God, 
In  the  Yucca  land. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


TEHACHAPI 

Vanguard  of  the  desert  thou  !  The  high  divide 

Between  the  ocean's  all  life-giving  atmosphere 

And  that  vast  arid  world 

Where  bleak  Mojave  stretches  to  the  east. 

From  thy  brave  front  dwarfed  pines  look  desert- 
ward 

Against  the  sun.  And  up  the  steep  slants  at  thy 
base 

Defiant  bristling  yucca  trees  climb  scantily. 

The  brewing  place  of  storms  art  thou, — of  clouds 

That  come  unheralded, — vague  whims  of  fleeci- 
ness — 

All  piling  up  in  wonderments  of  shapes. 

White  towers,  and  domes  of  glistening  ivory, 

And  golden  pinnacles  the  sunlight  plays  upon. 

Or  blown  by  warring  winds  whirl  round  and 
round  thy  head 

Black  helpless  furies, — vampires  of  the  night. 

Then  dawn ;  and  lo,  thou  standest  robed  in  sacred 
white. 


My  heart  and  all  life's  sweet  alluring  charms 
I   leave   here   in    the    desert   wilderness. 

There  is  no  joy  outside  of  your  dear  arms, 
No  heaven  beyond  the  reach  of  your  caress. 

Soul  of   the   desert  silences. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


ROCKING  THE   BABY 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby — 
Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine — 
And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 
That  round  her  neck  entwine, 
As  she  rocks,  and  rocks  the  baby, 
In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

1  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 

Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 

Oh !  I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and  love 

In  the  "baby  bye"  she  hums. 

I  can  see  the  restless  ringers 

Playing  with  "mamma's  rings," 

And  the  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth, 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings, 

As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 

I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes,  and  cheeks,  and  brow. 

From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start, 

Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  is  rocking  on  my  heart. 

While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press 

And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness, 

1  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 

For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


Men  have  fought  for  Liberty  and  told  her  battles  o'er, 
And  died  still  listening  to  her  far-off  call, 

Since  Miriam  struck  her  timbrel  on  the  Red  Sea's  shore, 
And  sang  deliverance  from  Egypt's  thrall. 


LIBERTY'S  BELL 

There's  a  legend  told  of  a  far-off  land — 
The  land  of  a  king — where  the  people  planned 
To  build  them  a  bell  that  never  should  ring 
But  to  tell  of  the  death,  or  the  birth,  of  a  king, 
Or  proclaim  an  event,  by  its  swinging  slow, 
That  could  startle  a  nation  to  joy  or  woe. 

It   was   not   to  be  builded — this   bell   that   they 

planned — 

Of  common  ore  dug  from  the  breast  of  the  land, 
But  of  metal  first  moulded  by  skill  of  all  arts — 
Built  of  the  treasures  of  fond  human  hearts. 

And   from   all   o'er  the   land   like  pilgrims   they 

came, 

Each  to  cast  in  a  burden,  a  mite  in  the  flame 
Of  the  furnace — his  offering — to  mingle  and  swell 
In  the  curious  mass  of  this  wonderful  bell. 

Knights  came  in  armor  and  flung  in  the  shields 
That  had  warded  off  blows  on  the  Saracen  fields ; 
Freemen  brought  chains  from  prisons  afar — 
Bonds  that  had  fettered  the  captives  of  war. 
And  sabers  were  cast  in  the  molten  flood 
Stained  with  the  crimson  of  heroes'  blood. 
Pledges  of  love,  a  bracelet,  a  ring, 
A  gem  that  had  gleamed  in  the  crown  of  a  king; 
The   coins   that   had    ransomed   a   maiden    from 
death, 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


The  words,  hot  with  eloquence,  caught  from  the 

breath 

Of  a  sage,  and  the  prayer  on  the  lips  of  a  slave 
Were  heard  and  recorded,  and  cast  in  the  wave 
To  be  melted  and  moulded  together,  and  tell 
The  tale  of  their  wrongs  in  the  tones  of  the  bell. 

It  was  finished  at  last,  and,  by  artisan  hand, 
On  its  ponderous  beams  hung  high  o'er  the  land. 
The  slow  years  passed  by  but  no  sound  ever  fell 
On  a  listening  ear  from  the  tongue  of  the  bell. 
The  brown  spider  wove  her  frail  home  on   its 

walls, 

The  dust  settled   deep   in   its   cavernous   halls. 
Men  laughed  in  derision,  and  scoffed  at  the  pains 
Of  the  builders;  and  harder  and  harder  the  chains 
Of  a  tyrannous  might  on  the  people  were  laid ; 
More    insatiate,    more   servile,   the    tribute   they 

paid; 
There  was  something  they  found  far  more  cruel 

than  death, 
And   something  far  sweeter  than   life's   fleeting 

breath. 

[William  O.  McDowell,  a  liberty-loving  patriot,  of 
Lincoln  Park,  Newark,  N.  J.,  saw  "Liberty's  Bell,"  the 
poem  by  Madge  Morris  Wagner,  tacked  up  beside  the 
old  Liberty  Bell  in  historic  Independence  Hall,  Phila 
delphia.  It  gave  him  an  inspiration  to  build  a  Columbian 
Liberty  Bell  as  outlined  in  the  poem.  He  began  the 
work.  His  children  were  the  first  contributors;  then 
the  Daughters  of  the  Revolution,  headed  by  Mrs.  Adlai 
Stevenson,  took  it  up;  the  governors  of  all  the  States 
appointed  committees;  and  it  grew  and  grew  until 
250,000  historical  relics  and  gifts  were  received  to  be 
molded  into  his  bell.  So  it  became  the  great  National 
Bell,  at  the  Columbian  World's  Fair.  Chicago  by  its 
legal  authorities,  set  apart  the  Fourth  of  July,  1893,  as 
Liberty  Bell  Day,  and  gave  to  Mrs.  Madge  Morris  Wag 
ner  and  Wm.  O.  McDowell  the  freedom  of  the  City. 
It  has  been  customary  since  the  world  began  to  recog 
nize  high  officials,  but  seldom  have  cities  so  honored 
those  whose  best  endeavor  has  been  in  the  direction  of 
the  sentiment  and  soul  of  liberty.] 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


But,  hark !  in  the  midst  of  the  turbulent  throng, 
The  moans  of  the  weak  and  the  groans  of  the 

strong, 

There's  a  cry  of  alarm.    Some  invisible  power 
Is  moving  the  long  silent  bell  in  the  tower. 
Forward  and  backward,  and  forward  it  swung, 
And   Liberty!   Liberty!    Liberty!   rung 
From  its  wide,  brazen  throat,  over  mountain  and 

vale. 
Till  the  seas  caught  its  echo  and  monarchs  turned 

pale. 

Our   forefathers   heard    it  —  that   wild,    thrilling 

tone, 
Ringing  out  to  the  world,  and  they  claimed  it 

their  own. 

And  up  from  the  valley,  and  down  from  the  hill, 
From  the  flame  of  the  forge,  the  field,  and  the 

mill, 

They  paid  with  their  lives  the  price  of  its  due, 
And  left  it  a  legacy,  freemen,  to  you. 
And  ever  when  danger  is  menacing  nigh, 
The  mighty  bell  swings  in  the  belfry  on  high, 
And  men  wake  from  their  dreams,  and  grasp  in 

affright, 
Their  swords,  when  its  warning  sweeps  out  on 

the  night. 

It  rang  a  wild  paean  o'er  war's  gory  waves 
When  the  gyves  were  unloosed  from  our  millions 

of  slaves ; 
It  started  with  horror  and  trembled  a  knell 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


From  ocean  to  ocean,  when  great  Lincoln  fell. 
And  once  in  each  year  as  time  onward  rolls, 
Slowly  and  muffled  and  mournful  it  tolls 
A  dirge,  while  Columbia  pauses  to  spread 
A  tribute  of  love  on  the  graves  of  her  dead. 

While  Washington's  name  is  emblazoned  in  gold, 
Or  the  valor  of  Lee,  or  of  Sheridan,  told, 
While  patriots  treasure  the  words  of  a  Hayne, 
The  fiery  drops  from  the  pen  of  a  Paine; 
While  the  memory  of  Morris  it's  sacrifice  gave, 
And  gratitude  lingers  to  weep  at  his  grave; 
While  dear  is  the  name  of  child,  mother  or  wife, 
Or  sweet  to  a  soul  is  the  measure  of  life, 
America's  sons  will  to  battle  prepare 
When  its  tones  of  alarm  ring  aloud  on  the  air. 
For  Liberty's  goddess  holds  in  her  white  hand 
The  cord  of  the  bell  that  swings  over  our  land. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE  CROWNING  OF  LIBERTY 

She  came  on  that  immortal  morn, — 

So  pale,  so  wan,  and  weeping  so ! 
Fair  Liberty;  bowed  with  the  scorn 

That  wrought  a  suffering  people's  woe. 

She  spoke,  and  in  her  pleading  tones 

A  voice  came  ringing  o'er  the  sea 
From  fallen  Roma's  crumbling  thrones, 

From  graves  of  old  Thermopylae. 

The  listening  breezes  heard  her  plea, 

They  told  it  to  the  summer  morn, 
'Twas  whispered  by  each  forest  tree, 

And  by  each  blade  of  rustling  corn. 

'Twas  murmured  by  the  brooklet's  waves, 
The  echoing  mountains  caught  the  cry 

And  flung  it  back  to  ocean's  caves — • 
The  ocean  rolled  it  to  the  sky. 

Our  patriot  sires — that  grand  old  band — 
Had  met  in  troubled  council  throng, 

If  that  they  might,  to  quench  the  brand, 

Where  smouldering  burned  a  Nation's  wrong. 

They  heard  fair  Liberty's  appeal, 

They  gazed  upon  her  matchless  form ; 

Each  faltering  nerve  grew  firm  as  steel, 
Each  breast  was  bared  to  meet  the  storm. 

A  moment  low  those  stern  heads  bowed 

In  solemn,  silent  awe  of  prayer, 
And  then  a  wild  shout,  long  and  loud, 

Burst  out  upon  the  quivering  air. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


The  spirit,  roused,  would  sleep  no  more, 
And  each  in  turn,  on  bended  knee, 

With  brow  uncovered,  reverent  swore, 
Eternal  faith  to  Liberty! 

Her  torn  and  bleeding  feet  they  dressed 
In  sandals  wrought  of  maiden  gold, 

Into  her  trembling  hand  they  pressed 
The  scepter  from  a  Monarch's  hold. 

They  broke  the  fetters  that  had  led 
Her  captive  in  their  cruel  scars, 

And  bound  upon  her  regal  head 
A  flashing  coronet  of  stars. 

Their  fortunes,  lives,  their  all,  alone, 
They  fastened,  with  her  mantle's  sheen ; 

Gave  her  their  proud  hearts  for  a  throne, 
And  Liberty  was  crowned  our  Queen. 

The  deed  a  world  then  laughed  to  mock 
Has  swept  in  Majesty  of  State, 

From  Massachusetts'  Plymouth  Rock, 
To  California's  Golden  Gate. 

Her  heritage  from  sea  to  sea, 

A  land  that  owns  no  craven's  right, 

Where  but  to  be  is  to  be  free, 

Her  flag  the  symbol  of  her  might. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE   PASSING   OF    McKINLEY 

Black,  black,  all  black,  our  open  door  is  closed 

with  ebon  bars ; 
For  woe  like  this  there  are  no  creeds,  no  bonds, 

no  social  bourns : 

Black,  black,   all   black!   half-masted   hangs   Old 
Glory's  stripes  and  stars — 

The  great  republic  mourns. 

Low,  low  he  lies,  so  low !    the  nation's  chief,  the 

nation's  pride; 
So   still   the   careful   hands   which   steered   his 

country's  danger  past; 
So  dumb  the  tongue  whose  golden  speech  our 

faith  had  justified : 

God's  seal  of  rest  upon  his  breast,  and  peace, 
and  home,  at  last. 

The  shot  that  felled  McKinley  jarred  the  round 

earth's  rim ; 
It  aimed  at  law,  all  law,  it  aimed  at  heaven's 

high  throne, — 

For  doth  the  firmament  not  move  by  law  of  Him, 
And  seed  and  harvest  time  from  zone  to  zone? 

Calamity  stared  grimly  black  the  whole  world  in 

the  face 
When   anarchy,   foul-brooded   spawn   of   slime 

and  mud, 

Spat  her  corroding  venom  to  the  highest  place 
And  smeared  the  down-step  to  her  den  writh 
blood. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


Not,  not  alone  McKinley's  life — brave  life  that 

bore  no  stain, 
Great    statesman,    gentlest    husband,    man    of 

Christian  men — • 
He  stood  for  us,  each  one,  and  in  him  were  our 

brothers  slain, 
And  our  dead  fathers  in  his  death  did  die  again. 

Black,  black,  all  black,  our  open  door  is  closed 

with  ebon  bars; 
For  woe  like  this  there  are  no  creeds,  no  bonds, 

no  social  bourns ; 

Black,  black,  all  black!    half-masted  hangs  Old 
Glory's  stripes  and  stars — 

The  great  republic  mourns. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


CUBA 

On  her  war  beleaguered  island 
Cuba  stands  and  fights  alone. 

And  her  strangling  cry  for  freedom 
Shakes  the  glory  of  a  throne. 

Stands  beside  her  ruined  altars 
Flame  and  sword  engirded  round, 

Sees  her  maidens  torn  from  shelter, 
Sacrilege  on  holy  ground. 

Flame  and  sword  and  desecration, 
Wrongs  that  Satan's  self  abhors, 

All  the  barbarous,  shameless,  nameless 
Savagery  of  civil  wars. 

O,  ye  synod  of  the  nations, 

Shall  you,  to  this  struggling  land, 

Give  no  sign  of  recognition, 
Raise  no  voice,  uplift  no  hand? 

Vain  your  teaching,  false  your  preaching, 
While  yon  royal  flag  of  Spain 

With  the  cross  of  Christ  upon  it 
Floats  above  such  fields  of  slain. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


What  has  a  man  when  it  all  is  attained, — 
Ambition,  and  glory,  and  glitter  of  fame — 
Or  wealth  with  the  burden  of  folly  it  gained, 
And  burnt  out  his  candle  in  winning  the  game. 
Then  darkness,  and  lo!  at  the  end  of  the  strife, 
He  has  fought  for  a  phantom  his  senses  to  cheat, 
And  missed  all  the  sweetness  and  rhythm  of  life 
And  the  flowers  that  grew  at  his  feet. 


"HE  HITCHED  HIS  WAGON  TO  A  STAR" 

He  hitched  his  wagon  to  a  star 

With  brave  intent, 
He  hitched  his  wagon  to  a  star, — 

The  highest  in  the  firmament. 

He  bent  his  shoulder  to  the  spokes 

And  lifted  with  his  might; 
His  feet  were  in  the  sordid  mire, 

His  face  was  toward  the  light. 

He  heard  the  boom  of  breaking  worlds 

That  starred  the  Milky  Way ; 
He  saw  the  wardens  of  the  sun 

Roll  back  the  gates  of  day. 

And  though  he  never  turned  a  wheel, 
Felt  not  the  hurt  the  vanquished  feel ; — 

Through  far  high  vistas  vast  and  dim, 
The  highest  star  still  beckoned  him. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE    WOODMAN'S    PHILOSOPHY 

The  woodman  was  tall,  and  brawny,  and  brown, 
And  broad  of  the  shoulder,  and  muscled  was  he, 
As  a  king  of  athletes ; — not  a  club  in  the  town 
Could  produce  such  a  biceps.     I  came  and  sat 

down 

To  listen,  and  see, — 

For  the  ring  of  his  axe  it  was  music  to  me. 
He  swung  the  broad  blade  with  a  curve  at  the 

start, 
And  a  movement  of  wrist  never  learned  of  "Del- 

sarte." 
His  knuckles  shone  white  through  the  brown  of 

his  skin, 
With  a  "whah !"  went  his  breath  as  the  sharp 

edge  sank  in 

To  the  heart  of  the  tree ;  and  the  sappy  chips  flew 
And  scattered  and  rattled  like  hail  on  the  ground; 
And  the  axe  gave  a  "screak"  as  he  twisted  it 

round 

To  loosen  the  blade  from  the  cleft  it  had  made. 
The  back  of  his  hand  o'er  his  forehead  he  drew, — 
His  hand  was  so  sinewy  strong — Ah !   I  knew 
The  man  was  a  king;  I  said  to  him,  "Sire, 
There's  many  a  tree  in  your  forest  to  fell, 
Pray  what  do  you  do  when  you  tire?" 
"What  do  I?"  said  he,  with  a  smile  on  his  lip, 
"When  the  handle  gets  slick  and  commences  to 

slip, 
I  spit  on  my  hands  and  take  a  fresh  grip." 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


Not  with  saber,  and  cannon,  and  banners  un 
furled, 

The  new  Alexander  will  conquer  the  world; — 

He'll  have  sweat  on  his  brow,  and  a  smile  on 
his  lip, 

And  when  fortune  begins  through  his  fingers  to 
slip, 

He'll  "spit  on  his  hands  and  take  a  fresh  grip." 


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THE   ORACLE 

"This  year,  next  year,  now,  never!" 

Shyly  to  herself,  she  said, 
Tapered  fingers,  swift  and  clever, 

Pick  to  pieces  daisy's  head — 
That  its  oracle  may  tell  her 

When  the  day  that  she  shall  wed. 

Fall  the  petals  ever,  ever, 
"This  year,  next  year,  now,  never." 

Pretty  maiden,  who  shall  scold  her, 
If  she  sighs,  and  shakes  her  head! 

Has  the  oracle  not  told  her 
She  shall  never,  never  wed? 

Half  agrieved,  she  glances  over 

Where  the  field  and  meadow  meet- 
Flushes  redder  than  the  clover 
Blossoms  blushing  at  her  feet. 

Farmer's  son,  the  nearest  neighbor, 
— Stalwart  he,  and  tall,  and  lithe — 

Pausing  in  the  swath  his  labor, 
Deftly  whets  his  gleaming  scythe; 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


Pulls  his  hat  a  little  lower, 
Steps  aside  to  let  her  pass, 

Stammering  asks  if  he  may  show  her 
Where's  a  lark's  nest  in  the  grass : 

Clasps  her  hand  a  little  stronger 

Than  necessity  allows, 
As  their  shadows  growing  longer 

Warn  her  she  must  find  the  cows. 

Pretty  maid  in  sunset  glory, 
Thinks  the  daisy  told  a  story. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE   LITTLE   BROWN   BIRD 

A  little  bird  sat  in  her  nest  on  the  ground, 

A  wee,  wee  little  brown  bird; 
Sat  thinking  the  song  in  the  tall  poplar  tree 

The  sweetest  she  ever  had  heard. — 
And  up  came  a  lump  in  the  little  bird's  throat; — 
She  never  could  sing  a  note. 

She  looked  at  the  bird  in  the  tall  poplar  tree, 
On  its  head  was  a  wonderful  crest ; 

Its  wings  they  were  spangled  with  velvet  and 

gold 
And  red  was  the  flame  on  its  breast.  — 

Oh,  never  a  feather  of  color  had  she, 

She  was  brown  as  a  bird  could  be. 

The  bright  plumaged  bird  in  the  tall  poplar  tree 
Sang  longer  and  sweeter  her  strain. 

The  little  brown  bird  drooped  lower  her  head 
And  listened  in  envious  pain. 

Click !   Bang !  broke  a  murderous   sound  on   the 
breeze; 

It  rustled  the  leaves  on  the  trees. 

And  down  through  the  rustling  leaves  came  the 

bird. 
There    were    stains    on    each    leaf    which    she 

brushed. 
The  red  on  her  breast  it  was  redder  with  blood 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


And  the  voice  of  her  singing  was  hushed. 
The  hunter  had  heard  her  wild  song  on  the  limb 
And  her  breast  made  a  target  for  him. 

In  penitent  pity  the  little  brown  bird 

Drew  closer  each  sheltering  wing ; 
And  the  wee  baby  birds  hidden  under  her  breast 

Are  glad  that  their  mother  can't  sing. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


A  STAINED  LILY 

Some  lilies  grew  by  a  brook-side, 

Tall  and  white,  and  cold, 
And  lifted  up  to  the  sunshine 

Their  beautiful  hearts  of  gold. 

And  near  to  their  bed  grew  mosses, 
Rank  vines,  and  flowers  small, 

And  loathsome  weeds,  and  thistles, 
And  the  sunlight  warmed  them  all. 

Anon,  the  proud  white  lilies 
Were  gathered,  one  by  one, 

Each  to  crown  a  festal, 
The  rarest  under  the  sun. 

One  lily  stopped  to  the  brooklet, 
Her  face  she  knew  was  fair, 

And  the  face  of  the  flowing  water 
Mirrored  her  image  there. 

A  hand,  upraised  in  envy, 

Or  carelessness,  or  jest, 
Flung,  from  the  turbid  water, 

Mud,  on  the  lily's  breast. 

And  all  the  proud,  white  lilies 

Turned  their  faces  away, 
And  nobody  plucked  that  lily, 

And  day,  and  night,  and  day 


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She  wept  for  her  ruined  beauty: 
And  the  dew-drops,  and  the  rain, 

Touched  with  her  tears,  in  pity 
Fell  on  the  muddy  stain. 

Still  stood  she  in  her  grieving, 

Day,  and  night,  and  day; 
Nor  tears,  nor  dew,  nor  rain-drops 

Could  fade  the  stain  away. 

Pining  in  desolation, 

Shunned  by  each  of  her  kind, 
Sought  she  a  bitter  solace 

In  creatures  of  coarser  mind. 

But  the  breath  of  the  nettle  stung  her, 
And  the  thistle's  rude  embrace 

Burned  her  sensitive  nature, 
And  scarred  the  fair,  stained  face. 

Lower,  drooped  the  lily, 

And  died  at  the  feet  of  the  weeds; 
And  only  the  tender  mosses 

Ministered  to  her  needs. 

And  still  the  tall  white  lilies 

Stand  as  cold,  and  proud, 
And  still  the  weeds  and  thistles 

Against  the  lilies  crowd. 

Alike  the  same  warm  sunbeams 

On  weed  and  flower  fall, 
Alike  by  the  same  soil  nourished, 

And  the  great  God  made  them  all. 


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SOMEBODY'S   BABY'S   DEAD 

A  hearse  all  draped  in  mourning, 
With  white  plumes  overhead, 

Bearing  a  little  coffin — 
Somebody's  baby's  dead. 

Upon  the  satin  cover 

Some  hand  has  placed  a  wreath, 
White  as  the  waxen  features 

Of  the  baby  that  lies  beneath. 

Out  in  the  graveyard  making 
A  rest  for  a  shining  head, 

Somebody's  heart  is  breaking, 
Somebody's  baby's  dead. 

Over  a  baby's  coffin, 

Heaping  a  mound  of  clay, 

Somebody's  hopes  are  buried 
In  that  little  grave  today. 

Somebody's  home  is  dreary, 
Somebody's  sunshine  fled; 

Somebody's  sad  and  weary, 
Somebody's  baby's  dead. 


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INTERREGNUM 

"Out  of  my  way!"  cried  the  brave  New  Year, 

"Out  of  my  way,"  sang  he; 
"Make  way  for  my  bride,  Old  Year ;  aside, 

"Aside,  Old  Year!"  sang  he,— 
"Make  way  for  my  bride  and  me." 

He  smiled  as  he  tossed  his  locks  of  tawn, 
Red  crowned  with  the  rosy  glimpse  of  dawn. 
He  smiled  and  sang,  and  sang  again, 
And  the  Old  Year  sighed:    "Amen, 
Ah  me,  Amen !" — and  he  stepped  aside. 
But  he  opened  his  long  black  mantle  wide 
And  close  to  his  shriveling  breast  he  pressed 
The  bride  of  the  brave  New  Year. 


THE   SEA  AND  THE  WIND 

"Whither  away?"  sighed  the  Sea  to  the  Wind, 
"Where  goeth,  where  bloweth  thou?" 

"I  go,"  said  the  Wind,  "to  blow,"  said  the  Wind, 
"The  secret  thou  sighest  now." 

"Why  bidest  thou  here?"  said  the  Wind  to  the 
Sea, 

"Why  hidest  thou  here  thy  worth?" 
"I  bide,"  said  the  Sea,  "to  hide,"  said  the  Sea, 

"The  wrecks  of  thy  cruel  mirth." 


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SOCIETY 

Go  down  in  the  perilous  ocean  deeps 

For  the  treasures  hidden  there. 
Bring  gems  that  have  lain  in  a  dead  man's  eyes 

To  gleam  in  a  woman's  hair. 
Slay  a  million  birds — small  mother  birds — 

Till  your  soul  of  pity  dies. 
In  the  cup  that  is  rusted  with  tears  of  woe 

Drink  a  toast  to  your  lady's  eyes. 
Have  faith  in  the  wiles  and  the  cheating  smiles 

You  hug  to  your  foolish  breast, 
Thrust  to  the  wall,  beyond  recall, 

The  hearts  that  have  loved  you  best. 
Over  and  over,  the  rose,  and  the  mold, 

The  social  tales  of  the  world  are  told. 


AN    EMPIRIC 

What  is  there  ever  in  living — 
To  live,  and  to  live,  and  to  live? 

Nay;  not  the  gift,  but  the  giving — 
What  hast  thou,  mortal,  to  give? 

The  songs  that  come  up  from  the  silence 
Of  graves  where  Self  lieth  slain; 

Gethsemane's  red  drops  of  passion, 
And  the  pitiful  pleasure  of  pain — 
These  are  thy  gifts,  and  thy  gain. 


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MOTHER 

I  went  away  against  her  will, — 

Home  was  so  small,  the  world  so  wide, 
And  I  so  full  of  foolish  pride. 

Why  should  she  take  my  going  ill? 

Why  weight  her  heart  with  useless  sighs, 
And  hurt  me  with  her  streaming  eyes? 

I  came  at  last,  I  crossed  the  sea 

To  lay  my  head  upon  her  breast 
And  tell  her  that  our  dear  home  nest 

Was  larger  than  the  world  to  me. — 
It  may  be  in  her  silken  shroud 
She  wondered  why  I  wept  aloud. 


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DEAD    LOVE 

There  is  no  dead  thing  in  this  world  so  dead 
As  love  that  has  been  slain. 

Think  not  that  you 

Can  lightly  toy  with  it,  and  set  your  foot 
Upon  its  heart  for  pleasurance,  and  wound 
The  ground  with  its  red  blood,  then  bid  it  rise 
And  stand  all  blushing  new  again 
Beside  you. 

Nay ;  though  from  the  mouldy  grave 
Your  power  could  take  the  skeleton,  and  all 
Its  mildewed  joints  habilitate  with  living  flesh, 
You,  yet,  could  not  bring  dead  love  back  to  life. 


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FATE 

Ruth  was  a  laughing-eyed  prattler, 

Thoughtless,  and  happy,  and  free; 
She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 

And  said :    "It  will  grow  to  a  tree — 
A  beautiful  blossoming  tree." 

The  birds  and  the  squirrels  played  round  it, 

As  careless  and  merry  was  she, 
But  no  tree  ever  grew  from  her  planting — 

No  beautiful,  blossoming  tree. 

Ruth  was  a  winsome-faced  maiden, 

Happy,  and  hopeful,  and  free; 
She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 

And  smilingly  waited  to  see — 
A  beautiful,  blossoming  tree. 

She  covered  the  ground  up  with  flowers, 

The  butterfly  came,  and  the  bee, 
But  no  tree  ever  grew  from  her  planting — 

No  beautiful,  blossoming  tree. 

Ruth  was  a  pale,  saddened  woman, 

Thoughtful,  with  tremblings  and  fears ; 

She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 
And  watered  the  place  with  her  tears — 

And  watched  it  with  tremblings  and  fears. 

The  winds  and  the  rains  beat  upon  it, 
The  lightnings  flashed  o'er  it  in  glee ; 

But  she  sleeps  'neath  the  tree  of  her  planting — 
A  beautiful,  blossoming  tree. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


UNDER   THE   SEA 

A  fisherman  rocked  in  his  boat  on  the  tide 

And  dropped  his  net  in  the  sea, 
He  sang  as  he  worked,  and  the  rising  tide 
Drifted  his  voice  to  the  water-side — 

Echoed  his  voice  on  the  lea. 

A  maiden  mended  the  fisherman's  nets 

At  the  water-side  on  the  lea, 
She  listened  and  longed  as  she  patient  wrought, 
And  no  sound  was  so  sweet,  the  maiden  thought, 

As  the  fisherman's  song  on  the  sea. 

A  maiden  stood  in  the  misty  light 

Gazing  out  o'er  the  water  wide, 
Straining  her  eyes  through  the  paling  light, 
And  around  her  feet  in  the  deepening  night, 

Crept  slowly  the  rising  tide. 

The  mermaids  braided  the  maiden's  hair 

Under  the  depths  of  the  sea — 
Braided  her  long,  bright  golden  hair 
Into  a  shimmering  wonderful  snare 

Under  the  fathomless  sea. 

The  fisherman  smiled  as  he  sang  his  song, 

For  a  maid  too  fond  and  fair — 
A  mermaid  floated  the  waves  along, 
She  caught  the  soul  of  the  fisherman's  song 

In  a  net  of  golden  hair. 


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And  ever  and  e'er  when  the  twilight  falls, 

And  the  moonlight  pales  on  the  sea, 
A  voice  on  the  ear  of  the  fisherman  falls, 
A  song  that  his  soul  and  his  sense  enthralls 
Drifts  over  the  lonesome  sea. 

And  deaf  to  the  warning  that  death  is  there, 

He  follows  the  song  of  the  sea; 
But  he  comes  not  back  for  a  shimmering  snare, 
A  wonderful  weft  of  golden  hair 

Is  waiting  him  under  the  sea. 


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THE  UNDERTONE   OF   SONG 

A  broad  flat  rock  the  creek  goes  rippling  round, 
Where  overhanging  leaves  make  pictures  in  the 

sun. 

The  silence  is  not  broken  by  a  sound 
Save  that  of  Autumn's  making;  surely  one 
Might  stay  and  dream,  and  dreaming  might  forget 
That  there  were  aught  in  all  the  world  to  do 
But  dream ! 

A  mother  quail  and  her  full  score 
Of  pretty  running  fledgelings  stop,  then  whir  into 
The  safer  undergrowth  which  skirts  the  water 

shore. 

A  cone  from  yon  tall  pine  falls  heavily,  the  spoil 
Of  some  marauding  squirrel's  teeth ;  and  through 
Far  hights  a  mountain  vulture  sails  a  sea  of  blue. 
These  do  but  trend  the  fancies  to  a  dream ; 

And  yet, 

That  strenuous  straight  line  of  rusty  ants  along 
The  streamlet's  bank  keeps  faith  with  never  end 
ing  human  toil, — 
Its  moving  rhythm  the  undertone  of  song. 


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TO   A   MUMMY 

Did  death  come  when  that  form  was  3^oung  and 

fair 

And  lissome,  and  awake  to  flattery's  praise, 
Or  when,  with  heavy  step  and  whitened  hair, 
Thou'dst  lingered  out  life's  longest  span  of  days? 
And  did  that  heart  with  joy  or  grieving  swell? 
Who  now  can  tell? 

Wast  thou  a  sorceress  Cleopatra,  with 
The  splendor  of  all  Egypt  in  thine  eyes? 
Or  didst  thou  walk,  Diana-like,  the  world, 
A  bloodless  statue  made  in  woman's  guise? 
Thou  senseless  thing!    What  matters  it  to  thee? 
And  what  to  me? 

O  shrunken,  shriveled  shape.     If  I  could  bring 
Thy  roundness  back,  the  blood  into  thy  cheek, 
And  all  life's  spell  once  more  upon  thee  fling, 
What  wouldst  thou  tell  me?    If  thy  tongue  could 

speak, 

The  secrets  of  the  pyramids  wouldst  thou 
Reveal,  or  laugh  at  Israelitish  mother's  tears, 
Or  shuddering  with  horror  tell  me  how 
It  feels  to  lie  entombed  a  thousand  years? 


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SAPPHO  TO   PHAON 

God,  God !   How  I  have  loved  thee,  Phaon, — 

My  soul's  husband. 

When  the  brilliancy  of  Mitylene  turned 

Full  face  to  me  and  crowned  me  queen, 

One  kiss  of  thine  was  more 

Than  all  of  Greece's  glory. 

And  when  thou  earnest  forth 

To  win  thyself  a  name,  and  fame, 
I  was  so  glad — so  glad  that  thou  wast  great, 
So  proud  to  be  thy  lesser  mate. 
I  would  be  thy  left  hand,  and  thou  my  right. 
When  Athens  wrote  the  name  of  Phaon  on  her 

walls 

The  name  of  Sappho  would  be  wrote  beside  it. 
Phaon  and  Sappho  ever  spoken  in  one  breath. 
Phaon  and  Sappho  one  in  life  and  death. 

Ten  thousand  liars  had  prated  since  the  world 
began 

Of  love,  one  love,  one  woman  and  one  man. 

And  measuring  thy  love  by  mine 

I  dreamed  that  it  could  be. 
Man's  love  is  but  a  winged  fool  that  flies 

From  pretty  face  to  pretty  face, 
Nor  finds  a  strong  abiding  rest  in  any  place. 
A  sensuous  shapely  form,  and  well-tricked  eyes 
Will  handicap  a  soul  in  any  race 

Where  love's  the  prize 

And  man  is  umpire  in  the  case. 


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Phaon's  name  is  on  the  tongue  of  every  one, 
Alcaeus   and   Stesichorus,   they  pale   in   Phaon's 
sun. 

And  'tis  not  Sappho  walks  by  Phaon's  side. 

'Tis  her — not  me — that  Lesbos  names  with 

thcc. 
But  though,  while  yet  the  dew  is  on  thy  fame 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me 

And  spurned  the  wondrous  sweetness  of  our  love, 
I  tell  thee,  Phaon,  I  am  greater  still  than  thou; 
And  I  will  live  when  thou  art  only  known 

Because  that  Sappho  loved  thee. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


HER   CHRISTMAS    GIFT 

"I  have  nothing  to  give  you,  darling, 

For  a  Christmas  gift  tonight, 
Not  even  the  tiniest  present 

To  keep  my  memory  bright ; 
Nothing  at  all  to  give  you 

Only  my  love,"  she  said. 
She  said  it  so  wistfully,  so  sad, 

And  she  blushed,  and  hung  her  head. 

We  were  poor,  as  the  world  would  count  it — 

My  little  wife  and  I, — 
And  the  Christmas  time,  with  its  joyous  chime, 

Neglectful  passed  us  by. 

Only  her  love  to  give  me ! 

Oh !  she  could  not,  could  not  see 
That  she  gave  from  the  source  of  giving, 

Her  Christmas  gift  to  me. 
Only  her  love  she  gave  me, 

And  rich  as  a  king  am  I, 
And  there  is  not  gold  enough  in  the  world 

Her  Christmas  gift  to  buy. 


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AH   ME! 

She  reached  her  pretty  hands  to  me, 

Ah  Me ! 

She  reached  her  pretty  hands  to  me, — 
She  held  them  out  imploringly. 
A  fox  glove  grew  just  where  she  stood 
Within  the  border  of  the  wood. 

Ah  Me ! 

And  then — oh,  then,  I  could  not  go, 

Ah  Me! 

And  then  I  could  not — would  not — go, 
I  turned  away  and  left  her  so. 
Left  her,  her  pretty  hands  out  held, — 
Her  heart  with  pent-up  grieving  swelled, 

Ah  Me! 

Within  the  border  of  the  wood, 

Ah  Me! 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  wood 
The  fox  glove  grows  yet  where  she  stood. 
And  I  could  go — and  would — if  she 
Would  reach  her  pretty  hands  to  me. 

Ah  Me! 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 

I  HAVE  FOLDED  THEM  UP  AND  PUT 
THEM  AWAY 

1  have  folded  them  up,  and  put  them  away, 
Each  dainty  garment  you  used  to  wear, 
The  little  kid  shoes  with  the  tasseled  tops, 
And  the  long  bright  lock  of  your  golden  hair; 
And  hot  tears  fell  unchecked,  untold, 
Over  garment,  and  shoe,  and  tress  of  gold. 

The  little  dishes — the  china  cups 

And  saucers,  and  plates  with  gilted  bands, 

You  washed  them  last  and  piled  them  here 

In  the  painted  box  with  your  dear,  small  hands. 

The  music-book  with  the  lesson  marked, 
Your  ringers  touched  with  such  fairy  ease, 
Ran  over  the  notes,  then  tired,  and  failed, 
And  fell  from  the  task  on  the  ivory  keys. 

And  I  found  a  letter  among  the  things 

So  idly  thrown  on  an  idle  stand, 

''My  precious  Mamma,"  the  lines  began, 

Wrote  in  the  scrawl  of  a  childish  hand. 

O,  I  little  dreamed  when  I  read  it  over, 

And  carelessly  laid  it  here  away, 

That  through  blinding  tears  for  your  sweet  dead 

face, 
I  would  read  the  letter  again  today. 

Every  place  in  this  desolate  house, 

From  night  to  night,  and  from  dawn  to  dawn, 

Wherever  I  go,  wherever  I  look, 

There  is  something  to  mind  me  that  you  are  gone. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


So  I  folded  them  up  and  put  them  away, 
And  locked  them  out  of  my  sight  forever; 
And  I  have  not  spoken  your  name  since  then 
To  keep  from  thinking. — Vain  endeavor ! 

When  has  turning  a  key  forgetfulness  brought? 
And  who  can  limit  the  flight  of  a  thought? 

Everywhere  in  this  beautiful  world, 

From  night  to  night,  and  from  dawn  to  dawn, 

Wherever  I  go,  whatever  I  see, 

There  is  something  to  mind  me  that  you  are  gone. 


//  when  we  left  a  loved,  or  loving  one, 

We  knew  that  surely  one  of  us  would  die 
Before  another  dawn,  or  set  of  sun, 

We  would  not  ever  lightly  say  "Good-bye." 
And  yet  We  know 
Some  day  it  must  be  so. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


MY  SHIPS  HAVE  COME  FROM  THE  SEA 

You  are  watching  a  ship,  Oh,  maiden  fair, 
With  parted  lips  and  wistful  air. 
The  ship  that  out  from  the  sheltered  bay 
With  white  sails  spread  moves  slow  away ; 
And  I  know,  my  girl,  the  thoughts  that  burn 
In  your  heart  are  of  that  ship's  return. 
Ah !  I  know  so  well  how  your  pulses  beat, 
With  the  great  sea  sobbing  at  your  feet; 
And  the  yellow  stars  in  southern  skies 
Are  brighter  not  than  your  love-bright  eyes. 

I,  too,  have  stood  on  the  sea-wet  sand, 

And  tearful  waved  a  farewell  hand, 

And  watched  with  many  a  longing  prayer. 

My  face,  like  yours,  was  young  and  fair, 

And  my  eyes  were  bright  as  the  diamond's  glow, 

They've  lost  their  sparkle  long  ago. 

I  stand  alone  on  the  beach  today, 

Watching  the  ships  that  sail  away; 

But  never  a  sail  from  over  the  sea 

The  flowing  tide  will  bring  to  me. 

My  ships  have  come  from  sea. 

The  first  was  builded  with  childish  hand; 
It  floated  away  a  castle  grand — 
A  beautiful  bubble  with  rainbow  hues, 
Lined  with  the  crystal  of  morning  dews; 
To  break  at  my  feet  by  the  sunny  sea, 
A  beautiful  bubble  came  back  to  me — 
Came  back  from  my  ship  at  sea. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


I  fashioned  another  in  gladsome  way 
And  sent  it  forth  on  a  summer  day. 

I  see  it  yet,  a  fairer  craft, 
Never  at  danger  mocking  laughed; 
Its  shrouds  were  the  sheen  of  happy  hours, 
Its  helm  a  wreath  of  orange  flowers. 
And  I  freighted  it  down  with  love  and  truth, 
The  golden  hopes  of  my  sunny  youth. 
Had  it  lived  the  storm — but  it  could  not  be, 
A  stranded  wreck  on  the  surf-washed  lea, 

My  ship  came  home  from  sea. 

And  then  a  smiling  fairy  bark, 
A  fragile,  precious-freighted  ark, 
Out  on  life's  ocean  drear  and  dark. 
And  I  prayed  to  God  as  I  never  before, 
To  shield  this  bark  from  the  tempest's  roar; 
To  spare  me  this — but  it  could  not  be. 
A  little  coffin  came  back  to  me — 

Came  back  from  my  ship  at  sea. 

With  reckless  hand  I  launched  again 
A  venture  on  the  treacherous  main 
Bound  for  ambition's  dizzy  court, 
Sailed  from  a  hopeless,  loveless  port. 
With  gloomy  walls  whose  silence  chilled, 
With  ghostly  haunting  memories  filled, 
With  never  a  breath  of  the  roses  dead ; 
Never  a  rest  for  a  weary  head, 
Never  a  dream  of  a  sweet  to  be, 
Hopeless,    loveless    still,    to   me, 

My  ship  came  home  from  sea. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


The  last,  and  least,  of  all  the  ships 
Fashioned  with  hands,  and  heart,  and  lips, 
1  pushed  from  shore  with  its  decks  untrod, 
And  the  freight  it  bore  was  my  faith  in  God. 
I  recked  not  whither  its  way,  nor  when, 
Nor  how,  if  ever,  'twould  come  again. 
And  this,  alone,  came  back  to  me. 
Rich-laden  from  the  stormy  sea. 
And  so,  sweet  maiden,  while  your  dreams 
Paint  fairest  all  that  fairest  seems, 
I  stand  with  you  and  watch  today 
The  ship  that  sails  from  the  shore  away ; 
But  never  a  sail  from  over  the  sea 
The  flowing  tide  will  bring  to  me — 
My  ships  have  come  from  sea. 


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BREAK  DOWN  THE  DOOR  OF  THE 
JUBILEE 

Break  down  the  door  of  the  Jubilee, 
Let  the  penitent  years  file  in, 
And  with  knees  to  earth  in  the  sacristy 
Unshoulder  their  loads  of  sin. 
To  your  Jubilee  ye  hundred  years, 
Your  stoles  are  dabbled  with  blood  and  tears, 
Red,  red  with  the  wrongs  of  men, — • 
With  the  lust  of  men,  and  the  trust  of  men ; — 
With  the  gorge  of  gold,  forsooth, 
And  the  hearts  that  broke  'neath   its  glittering- 
yoke 

In  the  marvelous  faith  of  youth. 
Pass  through,  pass  in,  old  years,  and  then 
Turn  back  and  seal  your  door  again. 

Break  down  the  door,  oh,  thou  white  new  year! 

Break  down  the  door,  "the  Holy  door," 

That  never  was  struck  by  mace  before, 

Brave  priest,  you  have  naught  of  sin  nor  fear. 

But  pass  you  in  in  reverence  prone — 

Lo !    Truth  stands  naked  there,  alone. — 

Look  once,  and  die,  for  so  it  is  writ. — 

But  you've  opened  the  door  and  out  of  it 

The  light  of  her  face  will  shine 

Till  the  morning  stars  shall  sing  again 

Of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  toward  men." 


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EASTER  LILIES 

With  eyes  all  dim  and  downcast, 
She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 

Bowing,  in  deep  submission, 
Under  the  weight  of  her  loss, 

And  she  held  in  her  hand  a  lily, 
Close  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

A  beautiful,  perfect  lily, 

To  lay  at  the  Savior's  feet; 
Sign  in  her  silent  sorrow — 

Of  her  worship — passion  sweet — 
A  snowy,  a  sinless  offering, 

To  lay  at  the  Savior's  feet. 

"Behold  thy  mother  and  brethren!" 
A  voice  came  up  from  the  crowd 

To  the  ear  of  the  dying  Savior — 
The  Savior  murmuring  aloud : 

"These  are  my  mother  and  brethren !" 
Looked  on  the  muttering  crowd. 

And  the  mother's  heart  that  was  in  her 
Swelled  with  a  jealous  fear, 

And  down  in  the  cup  of  the  lily 
Dropped  she  a  burning  tear — 

Dropped  on  the  snow  of  the  lily 
The  blot  of  a  selfish  fear. 

Dropped  in  the  cup  of  the  lily 
A  tear  that  was  hot  with  pain, 

And  the  snowy  heart  of  the  lily 
Was  snowy  never  again. 

The  wax-white  heart  had  withered 
In  the  salt  of  its  burning  pain. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


And  ever  the  beautiful  lilies 

Are  placed  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 

Baptized  with  the  tear  of  a  mother, 
Keep  they,  a  sinless  ward — 

Sign  of  a  silent  worship 

At  the  cross  of  the  risen  Lord. 

And  ever  and  ever  the  lilies 
We  lay  with  a  smile  or  a  tear, 

A  sacred  gift  on  the  altar 

Of  the  idols  we  worship  here, 

But  deep  in  each  lily's  chalice 
Is  the  yellow  stain  of  a  tear. 


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THE  CHRISTMAS  CROSS 

No  longer  red,  its  arms,  with  Christ's  red  blood. 
No  longer  bound  with  superstitions  fears. — 
Self-slaved  humanity  has  washed  it  in 

Two  thousand  years  of  tears. 
Strip  it  of  creed,  and  ritual,  and  all 
Its  mouth-made  garmenture  let  fall 

As  fashions  that  are  old. 
On  Calvary's  summit  let  the  mad  world  see 

God's  sign  of  love, — and  Christian  liberty. 


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GENESIS 

I  came  from  the  Unknowable. 

I  was. 

I  saw  the  first  far  reddening  glimmer  of  the  light 

Whose  whirling  fires  begot  the  sun. 

And  when  this  globe  of  earth  swung  darkling 

into  space 

Through  all  its  changing  parentage  of  life,  came  I, 
Till  man,  evolved  of  me,  awoke,  walked  forth 
And  sunned  his  forehead  in  the  smile  of  God. 
All  things  in  him  expressed,  all  things  were  his; 
His  the  adjusting  of  the  belted  zones, 
The    unmade    centuries,    the    cradles,    and    the 

thrones. 

But  failing  recognition  of  me  in  himself, 
The  red  instinct  of  his  four-footed  time 
Strives  with  his  higher  element  of  life. 
His  lust's  desire  his  law  of  Right,  he  makes, 
His  punier  brother  to  the  shambles  takes, 
Himself  of  his  own  heritage  himself  despoils ; 
And  warring  with  his  soul  he  pawns  his  breath 
And  passes  back  into  the  dust  of  death. 

And  I? — I  come  again,  again, 

Twice  twenty  times  as  many  times  again,  I  come ; 

And  then,  one  day,  a  god  is  born. 
And  many  wonder  at  the  marvel  of  his  power, 
And  bow  to  do  him  homage,  crying-  "Hail !    All 

Hail !" 

Believing  me  a  new  thing  yet  beneath  the  sun. 
Or  by  a  more  ignoble  impulse  moved,  they  say: 
"A  brand-new  devil  straight  from  hell  is  he." 
And   in   the   sleeve   of   my   flesh   garmenture,    I 

laugh,— 
So  old  am  I. 

For  I  am  Love — the  Atom  of  Creation,  I. — 
I  give  each  man  his  Christ  to  bless  or  crucify. 


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A   THOUGHT 

There's  nothing  dies ; — the  words  you  speak, 

The  kiss  you  pressed  upon  a  baby's  cheek, 

The  deeds  you  do,  the  thoughts  you  think,  stamp 

all  too  surely  on  your  face 
Their  separate  identities ;  and  leave  in  space 
A  heritage  for  other  souls  to  wear, — 
For  other  hearts  to  bear. 


A  MOOD 

And  so,  dear  dupe,  you  think  that  you 
By  your  own  truth  have  kept  him  true? 
That  moulded  in   such   loyal   mould 
Yourself,  your  thoughts  can  lift  and  hold 
Him  to  your  loftier  level?     Then 
Christ  had  not  need  to  die  for  men. 
Well,  keep  your  noble  thought,  be  true, 
And  guard  your  ignorance.     And  pray — 
Pray  God  at  night  and  dawn  and  day — 
The  pain  of  wisdom   may  not  come 
To  you ;   and   strike   you   dumb ;   and   numb 
Your  senses  till  they  die;  and  you 
Have  weariness  of  being  true. 
Say  wrong  is   right  and  let  it  go. 
And  maybe  you  can  make  it  so. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


ALL    HALLOWE'EN 

A  black  cat  sits  on  the  back  yard  fence, 

And  he  yowls  in  the  dead  o'  night ; 
There's  a  bat  with  wings  stretched  wide  and  tense 

Across  the  pale  moonlight, 
A  weird  wind  haunts  the  restless  town, 

And  ghosts  walk  up  and  down. 


UNDER  THE   GRASS 

And  I  must  lie  out  there  under  the  grass 

The  wind  ripples  over  the  hill. 
In  dewy  green,  or  in  dusty  brown. 

Must  lie  there,  and  lie  there,  and  lie  there 
still 

When  the  winter  rain  beats  down, 
And  down,  and  into  my  slim  white  bones 

Dissolving  the  dust  of  me. 
And  filtering  through  to  the  sun  and  the  dew 

And  the  light  of  the  stars,  will  pass 

Again  to  the  roots  of  grass. 

And  somebody,  someday,  will  plant  him  a  tree 
And  a  grape  and  a  rose  in  the  dust  of  me. 


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BENDITA 

"If  God  were  not  so  far  away,"  she  sighed, 
"To  reach  His  lowest  place,  I  might  have  tried. 
So  high,  so  far  from  me  His  heaven  lies, 
I  may  not  toward  it  even  lift  my  eyes," 

She  said, 
And  slowly,  lowly,  bent  her  head. 

Resigning  all  the  glory  of  the  skies, 
She  turned  to  earth  her  sorrow-smitten  eyes 
And  sought  its  best,  and  made  the  best  of  all 
That  chanced  into  her  toiling  hands  to  fall. — 
Nor  thought  of  self,   nor  any   chance   that  she 

might  take, — 

But  just  to  be  a  witness  for  His  sake. 
Then  waked  one  day  amidst  life's  sudden  stir 
To  find  the  high  and  far-off  God  was  leading  her. 


/  wonder  if  ever  the  angel  who  holds 
The  book  where  all  secrets  are  hid, 

Writes  for  us  the  things  we  were  trying  to  do, — 
Or  only  the  things  that  we  did? 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 

TOASTS 

TO   TRUTH 

The  most  beautiful  naked  thing  in  the  world,- 
And  the  most  carefully  clothed. 


TO  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN 

Were  all  love's  joys,  its  smiles  and  kisses, 
Were  all  its  hopes,  and  dreams,  and  blisses — 
All  that  a  million  years  could  think, — 
Imbrued  into  one  cup  of  dew 
And  given  to  me,  a  toast  to  drink, 
I'd  drink  that  toast  to  you. 


TO  CALIFORNIA 

Her  breath  is  the  purest,  the  wine  of  her  mouth 

Is  richer  than  Circe's  of  old, 
Her  sand/als  are  laced  with  the  silk  of  the  South, 

Her  bosom  is  woven  with  gold. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


//  /  and  you  no  more  were  said, 
And  thee  and  me  no  longer  read, 
The  ego  of  all  Being  would  be  dead. — 
//  thee  and  me  no  more  were  read, 
And  I  and  thou  no  longer  said. 


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"TO  YOU" 

When  you  return  to  your  green  hills 
And  all  the  starry  heavens  shine, 
Or   dawn   your   dusky   canyon   thrills 
To  life  again ;  or  may  be  when 
Its  little  rippling  rivulets  run 
To  softest  music  in  the  sun, 
Or  roars  the  wind  in  rougher  rhyme, 
You'll  think  of  me — just  me — some  time. 
In  that  dear  moment  pause,  and  then 
Let  some  sweet  memory  of  me 
Have  all  your  heart  and  constancy. 
And  I  will  come  to  you  that  day 
Though  I  be  half  the  world  away. 


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"DISTANCE  IS  CRUEL" 

vs. 
"DISTANCE   IS   KIND" 

"Distance  is  cruel,"  cruel,  you  say, 
Was  it  distance  that  kept  you  away — 
Was  it  all  distance?  I  say. 

The  man  who  is  thirsty,  or  hungry  for  bread, 
Does  he  count  the  miles  to  a  feast? 
Or  dally  with  time  till  his  banquet  is  dead 
And  many  the  miles  have  increased? 

Death  came  and  took  the  light  out  of  my  heart, 

And  stood  by  my  bedside  for  me. 

I    reached    him    my   hands    but    he    smiled    and 

passed  on, 
Death  must  be  cruel  some  way. 

Grief  came  and  found  me 

And  swathed  her  cloak  round  me 

And  bound  me  a  mummy  from  head  unto  feet, 

And  trouble  went  double  with  sorrow 

Today,  and  tomorrow,  and  yesterday. 

Poverty  laughed  when  I  bolted  my  door, 

Stood  by  the  door  outside 

And  laughed  at  my  pitiful  pride ; 

Peeped  through  the  keyhole  and  laughed 

Till  he  rattled  the  bones  in  his  thin  yellow  skin. 

Aye ;  they  all  came — a  clamorous  crew — 
Though  each  had  been  rover 
Ten  times  the  round  of  the  round  earth  over, 
But  never,  never  came  you. 


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If  "distance  is  cruel"  is  true, 

Then  you  who  thus  reasoned  were  cruelty's  self, 

And  distance  was  kinder  than  you. 

Out  of  the  dimmers  of  distance 
One  came  to  the  desert  to  me. 
He  kissed  and  caressed  me  and  blessed  me. 
O,  his  kisses  were  warm  on  my  face, — 
My  face  was  so  cold. 

Over  my  graves  in  the  desert 

He  planted  white  blossoms  of  peace, 

And  peace  was  surcease. 
My  heart  that  was  shriveled  to  die 
Grew  large  with  the  largeness  of  loving 
And  the  glory  came  back  to  the  sky. 
Distance  was  lost  in  the  spaces  of  places  that 

make  it, — 
And  distance,  I  take  it,  is  only  the  sieving  of  time. 


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DEAD    DAYS 

Do  dead  days  ever  more  return — 
The  ghosts  of  days,  I  mean, 

When  incense  smokes  and  candles  burn 
With  shrouded  Love  between? 

And  if  they  do,  come  thou  again, 
Touch  palms  with  me,  I  pray, 

And  turn  the  whole  world  back  to  Then,- 
Dear  ghost  of  one  dead  day! 


WHEN  WILL   MY   SOUL  GO? 

O,  when  will  my  soul  go — and  where  will  it  go? 

And  what  is  my  soul  when  it  goes? 
Will  it  rise  with  the  rain-clouds,  and  fall  in  the 

rain, 

And  exhale  from  the  heart  of  a  rose? 
Who  knows? 


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WHEN    THE    ROSES    GO 

You  tell  me  you  love  me,  you  bid  me  believe 
That  never  such  lover  could  mean  to  deceive. 
You  rave  o'er  my  eyes,  and  my  beautiful  hair, 
And  swear  to  be  true; — as  they  always  swear. — 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow  and  the  roses  go, 
And  lovers  are  rovers  oft,  you  know, — 
When  the  roses  go. 

I  have  heard  of  a  woman  sweet  and  fair, 
With  lips  of  love,  and  shining  hair, 
And  you  pledged  to  her  on  your  bended  knee 
The  selfsame  vows  you  make  to  me, 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow  and  the  roses  go. 
How  she  learned  that  trouble  comes,  you  know, — 
When  the  roses  go. 

You  hold  my  hand  in  your  thrilling  clasp, 
And  my  heart  grows  weak  in  your  subtle  grasp, 
Till  I  blush  in  the  light  of  your  tender  eyes 
And  dream  of  a  far-off  paradise. 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow,  and  the  roses  go. 
1  will  answer  you,  love — my  love — you  know, — 
When  the  roses  go. 


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PEARLIE   IS    GONE   AWAY 

No  papers,  cut  with  the  scissors, 

Scattered  over  the  floor; 
No  scampering  feet  on  the  stairway, 

No  finger-marks  on  the  door. 
How  still  and  lonesome  the  house  is, 

The  sunshine  looks  paler  today, 
And  the  wind  round  the  corners  is  whispering 

"Pearlie   is   gone   away." 

There  in  the  farthest  corner 

Is  her  "sailor-hat"  on  the  floor, 
Where  she  tossed  it  yesterday  evening 

As  she  bounded  in  at  the  door. 
Somehow  I  couldn't  take  it 

And  put  it  away  today, 
And  a  plate  of  mud  cakes  in  the  cupboard, 

I  couldn't  throw  them  away. 

"Is  she  dead?"  did  you  ask  me?    No,  no! 

Could  I  sit  here  so  calmly  then? — 
Just  gone  on  a  visit.    Some  day 

She  will  come  to  me  again. 
But  the  house  is  so  still  and  so  lonesome, 

And  the  sun  shines  so  coldly  today, 
And   the   wind    round   the   corners    keeps    whis 
pering: 

"Pearlie   is  gone  away." 


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A    PICTURE 

A  little  maid,  with  sweet  brown  eyes 

Upraised  to  mine  in  sad  surprise  ; 
I  held  two  tiny  hands  in  mine, 

I  kissed  the  little  maid  farewell. 
Her  cheeks  to  deeper  crimson  flushed, 

The  sweet,  shy  glances  downward  fell ; 
From  rosy  lips  came — ah !  so  low — 

"I  love  you — do  not  go !" 

I  see  it  through  the  lapse  of  years — 
This  picture,  oftimes  blurred  with  tears. 
No  tiny  hands  in  mine  are  held, 

No  sweet  brown  eyes  my  pulses  wake — 
Only  in  memory  a  voice 

E'er  bids  me  stay  for  love's  sweet  sake. 


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TWO   MUST   BE  TWO 

"They  twain  shall  be  one  flesh,"  the  Bible  said; 
The  minister  with  solemn  words  pronounced  us 

one 
That  long-ago,  sweet  hour  when  we  were  wed ; 

And  I — I  thought  it  had  been  done, — 

I    thought   that   we   were   one. 

That  he  would  hold  my  hand  in  his 

All  our  life's  journey  through — 
That  we  in  deed  and  word  and  thought  must  be 

Each  to  the  other  true; 
Each  to  the  other  all  that  life  desired 
Of  love  or  of  companionship  of  sex  or  soul, 
A  unison  of  aim  and  hope  and  plan — 
No  other  woman  in  the  world  for  him, 

For  me  no  other  man. 

One  day — a  strange  and  cruel  day — he  stopped 

And  told  me  I  must  walk  alone ;  that  two 

Were  never  one,  nor  ever  could  be  one. 

And  then  I  saw  that  near  unto  the  path  he  trod 

There  was  another  pathway,  parallel,  but  soon 

Diverging.    And  it  was  not  in  the  one 

Wherein  he  stood  that  he  placed  me. 

Far  back  along  the  way  which  we  had  come 

I  saw  a  woman's  tracks,  made  step  by  step 

In  harmony  with  his ;  in  sharp,  swift  agony  I 

knew 

That  they  would  go  with  his  until  the  end, 
And  never  weary  him ;  for  they  were  Friendship's 

tracks ; 

And  Friendship  walked  in  freedom  by  his  side. 
In  that  cold,  strange,  new  path,  where  he  placed 

me — • 

A  burden  lifted  from  his  weary  breast — 
Were  many  heaps  of  slender  bleaching  bones. 


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The  daylight  fled;  black  night,  without  a  star, 

Came  down  and  shrouded  me. 
I  groped  around,  I  tried  to  see,  I  tried  to  walk, 
But  only  stumbled  over  those  cold,  slender  bones. 
Then  all  the  souls  of  womanhood,  that  once 
Had  habited  those  slim  white  bones,  came  near 
And  tried  to  help  me.     But  my  feet  were  weak 
And  heavy  from  long  uselessness.     My  eyes 
Had  learned  to  see  but  in  Love's  light, 
And  from  its  cradle-time  Love  had  been  taught 

That  in  a  woman's  breast — 

"They  twain  shall  be  one  flesh;" 
It  never  had  been  shown  to  walk  alone, 

It  could  not  even  think  alone. 

I  sat  down  helpless  where  I  was ;  then  all  around 
I  heard  a  shiver  like  the  quivering  of  reeds 
Upon   a   river   when    the   night-wind   blows    up 

stream, 

And  from  those  heaps  of  bones  there  rose  a  cry, 
So  strong,  so  deep  and  thousand-voiced  and  long, 

That  all  the  darkness  trembled. 
In  its  slow,  shivering  wail,  I  heard  these  words : 

"Why  does  the  Holiest  of  Holies  lie? 

Twain  cannot  be  one  flesh; 

Why  is  the  sacredest  of  human  ties 

Bound  with  such  red  mockery  of  Truth? 
Friendship  hath  only  feet  with  which  to  climb — 
Yet  climbs  to  heaven.     Love  hath  both  feet  and 

wings, 
But  Falsehood's  swaddling  bandages  have  made 

of  her 
So  frail  a  thing  that  man  must  carry  her, 

Or  set  her  down  and  let  her  die. 
Go  back  and  tell  thy  sister  woman  not  to  love 
Till  Love  hath  torn  the  bandage  from  her  eyes 


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And  learned  the  power  of  her  wings, 
And  taught  her  feet  to  walk  as  free  and  proudly  all 

Life's  way  as  Friendship  walks. 
Go,  go  thou  back,  and  tell  to  whom  thou  findest 
there 

That  twain  are  not  one  flesh — 

That  two  shall  not  be  one." 

I  heard  and  bowed  my  head,  and  wept  in  won 
derment, 

And  wondering,  I  died. 

And  there  is  one  more  heap  of  slim  white  bones 
For  some  one  else  to  stumble  over  when 
To  her,  too  suddenly,  shall  come  the  knowledge 

that 
Two  must  be  two. 

Yet  my  lone  soul,  unsatisfied, 
Knows  if  there  had  been  such  another  love  as 

mine, 
And  these  had  known  and  loved  each  other, 

Two  had  been  one  by  law  of  Nature's  self. 
There  would  no  longer  then  have  been  the  need 
Of  any  far-off  Heaven,  and  death  had  ceased — 
Heaven  would  have  come  to  dwell  with  them, 

And  they  for  very  joy  could  not  have  died. 


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AN   INWARD   GLANCE 

Like   waves   of  tides   that   higher   reached   than 

others  went 

To  meet  the  fulling  moon's  impellant  light, 
And  with  their  depth  and  force  and  purpose  spent 

Left  only  foam  to  brown  upon  the  hight, 

So  are  my  thoughts. 


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IN  A  VISION 

Each  was  as  fair  as  the  other, 
And  both,  as  my  life,  were  dear, 

And  the  voices  that  lisped  me  "Mother," 
Heaven's  music  to  my  ear. 

One  faded  from  life  and  mother, 

And  died  in  a  winter  dawn, 
And  I  turned  me  away  from  the  other 

And  wept  for  the  child  that  was  gone. 

Then  I  lay  in  a  wierd  sleep  vision, 
Before  me  an  earth  dark  scene, 

And  the  land  of  the  Sweet  Elysian. — 
And  only  a  grave  between. 

One  child  soft  called  me  "Mother"— 
Out  from  the  shining  door — 

And  smiled  and  beckoned;  the  other 
Played  by  itself  on  the  floor. 

One's  path,  to  my  inward  seeing, 
Was  light  with  a  wondrous  day; — 

It  led  to  the  hights  of  Being, 
And  an  angel  showed  the  way. 

The  other  lay  where  Marah's 

Hot  sands  with  snares  are  strewn, 

Through  many  a  darksome  forest 
And  the  way  was  roughly  hewn. 


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A  faith  to  my  soul  was  given — 
The  wierd  sleep  vision  o'er — 

And  I  turned  from  the  child  in  heaven 
To  the  child  that  played  on  the  floor. 


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CORONALS 

1  twined  you  a  wreath  of  the  ivy  vine, 
You  plucked  me  a  red  rose  wet  with  dew — 

You  hold  in  your  hand,  and  I  hold  in  mine 
Red  rose  ashes  and  bitter  rue. 

Fortune's  wheel  turned  round  and  round, 
And  you  went  up  and  I  went  down. 

The  chaplet  of  bay  that  your  brow  entwined 
You  proudly  wore ; — but  I  knew,  I  knew 

That  you  held  in  your  hand,  as  I  held  in  mine, 
Red  rose  ashes  and  bitter  rue. 

You  brought  me  a  gift  from  the  Avalon  shores, 
I  gave  you  the  heart  of  a  lily-blow; — 

I  hold  in  my  hand,  and  you  hold  in  yours, 
A  cypress  wreath  and  ashes  of  snow. 

Fortune's  wheel  turned  round  and  round, 
And  I  went  up,  and  you  went  down. 

Of  the  sentient  draught  that  flattery  pours 
I  have  drained  my  meed — but  you  know,  you 
know, 

That  I  hold  in  my  hand,  as  you  hold  in  yours, 
A  cypress  wreath  and  ashes  of  snow. 


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INCONSISTENCE 

She  gave  me  once  a  blood  red  rose  and  kissed 
My  cheek.     Contemptuously  I   met  her  touch 

And    dropped    the    flower   as    though    a    serpent 

hissed 
Among  its  leaves.     I  blamed  her  much 

For  some  things  which  I  knew ;  nor  thought  that  I 
Could  less  that  smile  if  she  should  die. 

Today  a  wild  flower  white  as  snow  I  brought, 
And  laid  it  on  her  breast ;  and  then  I  thought 
How  mean  it  was  to  thrust  a  gift  on  her 
Who  could  not  hand,  or  lip,  or  eyelid  stir, 
To  fling  it  back ; — and  was  it  dew, — that  clear 
Drop  quivering  on  the  blossom, — or  a  tear? 


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BUT  ONE  LITTLE  STOCKING 

But  one  little  stocking!     There  used  to  be  two 
Hung  up  for  the  Christmas  treasures; 

I  dropped  in  a  tear  as  I  filled  it  anew — 
Too  sad  are  the  Christmas  pleasures. 

O  sainted,  O  sweet  Mother  Mary! 

For  motherhood's  blessing  and  dearth, 
Put  a  gift  in  the  stocking  in  Heaven 

And  say  it's  from  mother  on  earth. 


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MY   SOUL  AND   I 

What  were  you,  soul,  before  that  you  were  I? 
Were  you  by  death — some  other  form  of  death — 
Unburdened  from  some  other  shape,  in  some — 
Uncounted  time  (which  I  almost  remember) 
A  co-existent  quantity  with  atoms  of  the  stars, 
Or  were  you  but  a  sigh  of  Nature's  breath 
And  had  to  have  embodiment  to  make 
Death  possible? 

O,  passion  bounded,  sorrow  tossed 

Poor  Soul ! 
What  have  you  gained  or  what  have  you  lost 

By  wearing  flesh's  thrall? 
Enough  to  pay  the  troublous  cost 
Of  staying  here — of  coming  here  at  all? 
And  if  you  were  a  soul  and  knew  you  were 

Why  hither  journeyed  you? 
Was  there  not  in  vast  space  a  place 

More  fitting  for  a  soul? 

Poor  Soul, 

If  creeds  are  true,  and  you 
Were  fashioned  by  the  Mighty  Maker's  hand, 
In  His  own  Image  made, 
A  thing  unsullied  as  the  Maker's  self — 
White-winged    with    countless    millioned    happy 

years 

To  sing  His  praises  in, 

Why  came  you  here  to  mix  identities  with  me? 
To  worry  through  the  toil  and  moil  of  many  years, 
To  wash  yourself  in  tears 
And  die  at  last  sore  wounded,  sullied,  too, 
Your  white  wings  clipped,  just  for  the  slender 

chance 

Of  getting  back  to  where  and  what  you  were. 
Poor  Soul ! 


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ACROSS  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE 

I  never  hear  the  night  wind  blow, 

Or  see  a  red  rose  pearled  with  dew, 

Or  hear  a  lark's  song  in  the  dawn 
But  that  I  think  of  you, — 
Of  you,  hear  heart,  of  you. 


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MY   BROTHER 

(Leonard  Morris  Hilyard) 

Gone  out  into  the  darkness,  and  the  night — 
Gone,  gone  alone,  forever  into  the  unknown — 
My  Brother. 

Long  nights  and  nights  he  waited  for  the  dawn, 
And   watched   the   sunlight   glancing   down   the 

hills, 
Well-knowing  he  must  go;  but  kept  it  closely  in 

his  breast, 
And  hid  his  pain  lest  it  should  fright  us  that  he 

loved. 

And  then  one  day  he  smiled,  and  went  away — 
My  Brother. 

Say  not  that  he  is  dead  and  lives  not  anywhere 

That  potent  individuality, 

Nor  in  some  far-off  other  world  awaits 

The  Everlasting, — all  forgetting  this. 

No  morning  dawns,  or  sun  goes  down,  or  rain 

or  wind, 

Or  war  of  elements,  or  summer  stillness  comes, 
But  that  I  see  his  face — 
My  Brother. 

O,  there  are  hurts  too  deep  for  words. 

And  there  are  silent  rooms  in  memory 

Whose  emptiness  would  break  our  hearts  again 

To  venture  in. 

Rest  unto  thee,  and  peace,  and  blessedness,  and 

love ;  Amen ! 
There  was  no  braver,  kinglier-hearted  man  than 

thou — 

My  Brother. 


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THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  HEIGHTS 

She's   the   winsomest   fairy,   with   bonnie   brown 

eyes 

That  twinkle  so  merrily,  then  look  so  wise. 
Each    hair    of    her    head    in    the    sunshine    was 

traced, 
It's   the    vividest   gold   from    her   crown    to   her 

waist — 

Never  troubled  with  tie  strings  of  bonnet  or  hat. 
And  the  speckled  fawn  looks  from  his  browse  in 

the  flat, 

To  wonder  what   manner  of  comrade   is   that 
With  a  brown  little  hand  reached  to  give  him  a 

pat. 
She  is  friends  with  the  squirrels  and  birds,  and 

she   knows 
Where  the  shy  rabbit  hides,  and  the  Christinas 

tree  grows. 

She  sits  where  the  spring  ripples  over  its  brink, 
And  watches  the  bees  and,  the  butterflies  drink. 
She  puts  her  ear  close  to  the  old  redwood  tree 
To  hear  what  it  says  to  the  wind  from  the  sea; 
She  could  tell  you  its  tale  of  a  shepherd  and 

staff— 
The  redwood's  four  thousand, — she's  nine  and  a 

half. 
She  will  point  out  the  spot  where  the  full  moon 

first   spills 

Its  flood  of  pure  silver  to  burnish  the  hills, 
For   she's   friends   with   the   squirrels   and   birds 

and  she  knows 
Where  the  shy  rabbit  hides  and  the  Christmas 

tree  grows. 


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VALENTINE 

All  night  at  your  heart's  door  my  heart  had  stood, 
But  did  not  knock  (you  might  have  let  me  in, 

And  that,  before  the  world's  tribunal,  would 
Have  been  a  sin). 

From  out  the  somewhere  world  of  dreams,  my 

soul 

Saw  yours  come  back  into  its  sleeping  clay; 
Then  out  into  the  new-born  dawn,  I  stole 
And  went  away. 

It  was  a  soul  your  waking  eyes  first  saw,  and  so 
How  could  you  know ! 


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NOT  ACCLIMATED 

I  hate  you,  Southland  of  the  southern  west, 
I  say  I  hate  you !     All  your  hot  brown  breast 
Is  dried  and  shrivelled  up.    Your  wide  hot  mouth 
Breathes  only  scorching  desolating  drouth. 
Your  mountains  toss  their  jagged  peaks,  and  stop 
Just  short  of  majesty.    Your  rivers  drop 
Beneath  the  sands  of  their  own  beds,  and  seep 
Through  mud  and  roots  and  rotted  things,  and 

creep 
Like  cowards  to  the  sea.    I  say  I  hate  you ! 


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QUESTION 

Shall  I,  because  you  stabbed  me  in  the  back 

^  And  killed  my  friendship  with  a  traitor's  blow, 

Shall  I  behind  your  armor  strike,  and  show 

Myself  a  traitor  too, 

To  even  things  with  you? 


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I  HAVE  NEVER,  YOU  THINK,  A  SERIOUS 
THOUGHT 

I  have  never,  you  think,  a  serious  thought, 

My  friend — 
Never  a  moment  by  sorrow  taught 

Its  sympathy  to  lend. 
Can  you  by  the  light  of  laughing  eyes 
See  all  there  is  in  the  heart  that  lies 

Under  a  smile,  my  friend? 

Forever  wrapped  in  their  glittering  shrouds 

Of  snow, 
Are  the  mountain  peaks  that  touch  the  clouds; 

But  ah,  my  friend,  you  know 
There  are  smoldering  fires  that  never  rest, 
And  earthquakes  hid  in  the  mountain's  breast, 

Under  the  cold,  white  snow. 


UNANSWERED 

O  dear,  dear,  eyes,  now  shut  to  sight  and  sense, 
White  folded  hands,  at  rest  for  evermore, 

Can  you  not  give  me  back  one  look  from  thence? 
Nor  open  once,  just  once,  that  silent  door? 

If  I  could  have  one  glimpse  beyond  it  given, 
To  know  you  live,  and  love,  and  blame  me  not; 

My  mad,  mad  soul  would  give  its  hopes  of  heaven, 
And  die,  and  be  forgot. 


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QUERY 

It  is  so  precious  sweet  to  be  a  fool, 
A  pretty  little  petted  simpleton, 
And  let  the  great  big  fellow  you  have  won 
Believe  that  he  is  captor,  and  his  rule 
Imperative,  while  round  your  ringer  tips 
You  wind  him  with  a  smile  or  pout  of  lips. 
Who  would  be  large  and  wise,  and  boastful  rule, 
When  it's  so  "cute"  to  be  a  "little  fool?" 


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THE    RED    WINDS    BLOW 

The  red  winds  blew  around  the  world. 

The  gaunt  wolf  rose,  and  sniffed,  pricked  forward 

pointed  ears; 
The  vulture  sharped  her  beak;   Death  held  his 

breath ! 

And    dissonantly    twanged    the    music    of    the 
spheres. 

The  red  winds  blew.     The  nations   stirred  un 
easily, 

As  when  a  loitering  zephyr  ruffles  summer  leaves, 

Then  swift,  and  sudden  as  the  gathered  tempest 
strikes, 

Ten  times  a  million  men  rushed  at  each  other's 
throats 

And  drenched  the  fair  earth  with  each  other's 
blood. 

Ten  times  a  million  Christian  men,  with  songs 
of  home 

Upon  their  tongues;   each   praying  to  the  self 
same  God 

For  strength  to  slay,  and  slay,  and  kill  and  kill 

His  brother  men  across  the  reeking  trenches,  till 

No  man  was  left  to  lift  a  hand  opposing  him. 
For  what?  and  how?  and  why?  and  why? 

To  claim  a  city  by  another  claimed,  mayhap? 

To  step  across  a  line  marked  on  a  map? 

For  greed  of  place?     For  power  to  rule  God's 

unmarked  seas? 
Or  this?  or  this?  or  that?  or  that?  or  these? 

The  tramp  of  armies  shakes  the  smiling  lands. 

Such  armies !    God  of  Hosts,  till  now,  Thou  hast 
not  seen. 


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Death  rides  before  them  with  red  dripping  hands ; 
The  roar  of  breaking  worlds  their  bodeful  coming 

tells  ; 
The  bare  earth  moans  where  grew  sweet  fields  of 

gold  and  green. 
The  carrion  eater  slinks  close  in  their  shadow's 

hem, 
And  Famine,  stark  and  hungry-eyed,  stalks  after 

them. 

The  red  winds  blow. 

Whose  sons  are  these  that  sail  the  skies  in  winged 

ships, 
And  hurl  down  from   the  blue  of  heaven,   hot, 

hideous  death, 

To  break  upon  the  lullabies  of  sleepy  babes ; 
To  burst  amidst  the  fleeing  multitudes, 
Rend  limbs  from  limbs,  tear  quivering  flesh  from 

shrieking  bones, 
And  in  High  Places  thank  God  for  the  gruesome 

crime? 
Whose  sons  are  they  that  plant  the  seas  with 

death? 
Foul,  awful  death ;  that  lies  in  wait  for  human 

prey, 
Laughs  when  the  lordly  dreadnought  glides  too 

near 

(Itself  in  search  of  other  human  prey), 
And  springs  annihilation  in  a  breath ! 
Leaving,  of  all  the  splendid  armament's  defense, 
But  streaks  of  crimson  scum  upon  the  broadening 

waves. 

The  red  winds  blow. 


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Whose  sons  are  they,  made  in  Thy  image,  Thou, 

O  God ! 
Not  Thine?     Not  brothers  of  Thy  Son,  Whose 

way 
Was  gentleness;  Whose  touch  was  benediction. 

Nay; 

Not  Thine,  not  Thine! 
Nor    thine,    thou    carnate    devil,    watching   from 

thy  hell, 
The  hell  that  out-hells  thine!     In  thy  unholiest 

dreams 
Thou    could'st    not    have    devised    the    'cursed 

schemes 

For  human  woes,  and  horrors,  these  have  done. 
Thou  art  outstripped  in  cunning — out  of  date — 
Too  old  of  fashion.     Slip  back  in  thy  spuny  hell, 
They  are  not  thine. 

i 

Down  through  the  ages  they  have  come ; 
Red   souls   of   war,   obsessioning  the   earth, — 
They  were  the  miscreated  sons  of  her  who  sat 
Upon  the  seven-headed  scarlet  colored  beast 
Which  sat  upon  the  waters  of  the  Seven  Seas. 
To  whom  the  kings  of  earth  came  craftily, 
And  drank  abomination  from  her  gilded  cup. 
Her  smile  preceded  Babylon, 
And  on  her  brow  was  written  "Mystery." 
The  red  winds  blow. 


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And  Thou,  O  gentlest  Peace,  in  what  far  guarded 

place 

Dost  hide  and  hide  the  pity  of  thy  face? 
Let  loose  thy  snow-winged  dove,  to  rise 
And  fly  across  the  seething  blood-mad  world. 
To  flutter  over  fields  where  that  dread  Silence  is ! 
To  light  on  upturned  faces  blearing  at  the  skies 
And  curiously  peck  at  dead  men's  eyes. 
The  red  winds  blow. 


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A  PEACE  CONFERENCE 

Once  the  great  white  bear  of  Russia, 

Close  beside  his  polar  seas, 
Called  the  beasts  and  birds  to  counsel 

That  the  beasts  and  birds  would  please 
Cease  to  war  upon  each  other; 

Appetite  for  blood  should  cease, 
And  all  sovereignty  be  given 

To  the  sweet,  white  dove  of  Peace. 

The  great  bald  eagle  from  his  aerie 

On  the  mighty  Rockies'  crest, 
Lauded  peace  while  he  was  preening 

Blood  of  battle  from  his  breast. 

Royally  the  Albion  lion 

Licked  and  licked  his  velvet  paws, 
Roaring  Peace  to  Afric  jungles 

With  blood  and  feathers  on  his  claws. 

Came  the  great  black-breasted  eagle 
Swooping  from  the  Baltic's  shore. 

Bait  for  fish  in  Orient  waters 
In  his  peaceful  talons  bore. 

Then  the  great  white  bear  of  Russia 
Asked  all  beaks  and  claws  to  sheath ; 

Asked,  and  smiled,  and  showed  in  smiling, 
His  own  cub's  blood  upon  his  teeth. 

Far  away  upon  her  desert 

In  her  solitude  enthroned, 
Peace  sat  desolate  and  weeping — 

And  her  white  dove  moaned  and  moaned. 
Slowly,  through  the  hot  sun  toiling, 

An  aged  worm  with  ways  infirm, 
Stopped  its  homeward  crawl  to  listen; 

And  the  white  dove  ate  the  worm. 


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INTUITION 

I  kissed  her  eyes  and  cheeks,  and  then 
I  told  her  I  would  come  again. 
I  told  her  I  would  come,  and  then 
I  kissed  her  eyes  and  cheeks  again. 

Coat  falsehood  over  thick  with  wit, 
Wrap  reasoning  round  it — yards  of  it — 
And  there  are  eyes  will  pierce  it  through 
And  smile  your  falsehood  back  at  you. 

I  fancy  she  was  one  of  these, 
For  though  I  swore  by  shores  and  seas, — 
Aye ;  though  my  vows  in  heaven  I   booked — 
She  looked  at  me — just  looked  and  looked. 

Some  minds  toil  hard,  up-hill  and  far 
To  find  the  truth,  but  some  there 
Who  feel  the  truth  within  them  grow 
And  know, — not  knowing  how  they  know. 


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CALIFORNIA 

She  was  not  born  a  babe,  to  suckle  strength; 

A  woman,  gazing  down  her  land's  broad  length, 

Stepped  from  the  pines  out  on  the  fall-brown  grass. 

The  grizzly  bear  stood  back  to  let  her  pass. 

And  Fremont's  cannon  thundered  wide  and  far, 

Old  G/orp's  azure  had  another  star. 


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THE     OPENING    OF    THE     CALIFORNIA 
POPPIES 

To  the  West,  and  below  where  the  snow  summit 

looms, 

Stood  an  army  of  pike-pointed  lances  of  green, 
So  slenderly  fashioned  they  scarce  could  be  seen. 
How  could  they,  such  lilliput  lances  of  green? 
The  plains  and  the  foothills  were  spotted  all  over 
With  pieds  of  blue  camas,  and  tall  lupin  plumes 
In  reaches  of  purple ; 
And  blushes  of  bloom  of  the  clover. 
And  smelled  sweet  as  bee-bread. 
But  the  meadow  lark  laughed  in  his  ripple  of  tune, 
The  meadow  lark  knew  what  would  happen  at 

noon. 

There  were  stamens  of  gold  and  petals  of  flame 
Wrapped  up  in  each  green  little  conical  cap, 
That  slowly  slipped  up,  and  slipped  up,  till  it  came 
Off  at  the  top  with  a  snap ! 

And  the  petals  unrolled,  flame,  orange,  and  gold, 
And  airily,  fairily,  swung  on  the  stem, 
Till  the  land  was  afire  with  the  color  of  them. 


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THE  GOLDEN   GATE 

Down  by  the  side  of  the  Golden  Gate 

The  city  stands; 
Grimly,  and  solemn,  and  silent,  wait 

The  walls  of  land 

Guarding  its  door,  as  a  treasure  fond; 
And  none  may  pass  to  the  sea  beyond, 
But  they  who  trust  to  the  king  of  fate, 

And  pass  through  the  Golden  Gate. 
The  ships  go  out  through  its  narrow  door, 
White-sailed,  and  laden  with  precious  store — 
White-sailed,  and  laden  with  precious  freight, 
The  ships  come  back  through  the  Golden  Gate. 
The  sun  comes  up  o'er  the  Eastern  crest, 
The  sun  goes  down  in  the  golden  West, 
And  the  East  is  West,  and  the  West  is  East, 
And  the  sun  from  his  toil  of  day  released, 

Shines  back  through  the  Golden  Gate. 

Down  by  the  side  of  the  Golden  Gate — 

The  door  of  life, — 

Are  resting  our  cities,  sea-embowered, 
White-walled,  and  templed,  and  marble-towered — 

The  end  of  strife. 

The  ships  have  sailed  from  the  silent  walls, 
And  over  their  sailing  the  darkness  falls. 
O,  the  sea  is  so  dark,  and  so  deep,  and  wide ! 
Will  the  ships  come  back  from  the  further  side? 
"Nay;  but  there  is  no  further  side," 
A  voice  is  whispering  across  the  tide, — 
"Time,  itself,  is  a  circle  vast, 
Building  the  future  out  of  the  past; 
For  the  new  is  old,  and  the  old  is  new, 
And  the  true  is  false,  and  the  false  is  true, 
And  the  West  is  East,  and  the  East  is  West, 
And  the  sun  that  rose  o'er  the  Eastern  crest, 
Gone  down  in  the  West  of  his  circling  track 
Forever,  and  ever,  is  shining  back 

Through  the  Golden  Gate  of  life." 

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O  soul !   thy  city  is  standing  down 

By  its  Golden  Gate; 
Over  it  hangs  the  menacing  frown 

Of  the  king  of  fate. 

The  sea  of  knowledge  so  near  its  door, 
Is  rolling  away  to  the  further  shore — 

The  Orient  side, — 

And  the  ocean  is  dark,  and  deep,  and  wide! 
But  thy  harbor,  O  Soul !  is  filled  with  sails, 
Freighted  with  messages,  wonder  tales, 
From  the  lands  that  swing  in  the  sapphire  sky. 
Where  the  gardens  of  God  in  the  ether  lie. 
If  only  thy  blinded  eyes  could  see, 
If  only  thy  deaf-mute  heart  could  hear, 
The  ocean  of  knowledge  is  open  to  thee, 
And  its  Golden  Gate  is  near! 
For  the  dead  are  the  living, — the  living  the  dead, 
And  out  of  the  darkness  the  light  is  shed; 
And  the  East  is  West,  and  the  West  is  East, 
And  the  sun  from  his  toil  of  day  released, 

Shines  back  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


TO   CLARA   SHORTRIDGE  FOLTZ 

From  out  the  ranks  of  them  that  toil 
Thy  hand  has  carved  its  upward  way, 

Nor  stooped  its  God-given  trust  to  soil, 
Nor  dreamed  in  weariness  to  stay. 

If  faltered  e'er  that  heart  of  thine, 

It  ached,  but  gave  the  world  no  sign. 

Thy  voice  has  argued  in  debate, — 

In  scathing  satire  sharply  fell ; 
In  forum  and  in  hall  of  state 

Held  listening  thousands  with  its  spell. 
Then  dropped  its  tones  to  softest  keep 
And  crooning  sang  a  babe  to  sleep. 

True  as  the  ship  is  to  its  port, 

Thy  heart — on  seas  of  sun  or  foam — 

Wrought  out  its  masonry  in  Court, 
But  built  its  tower  at  home. 

And  when  the  gold  upon  thy  head 
Shall  change  to  age's  colder  gray, 

The  little  hands  that  thou  hast  led 

Will  lead  thee  down  life's  slanting  way. 

The  path  is  long  since  over-grown 

With  flowers  of  love  that  thou  hast  sown. 

Then  Hail  thee!    priestess  of  the  law — 
Our  fair-browed  Portia  of  the  West. 

Write  on  thy  shield :  "I  came,  I  saw, 

I  conquered."     Thou  hast  earned  the  crest.- 

Nay ;  more,  it  seemed  the  gods  to  thee 

Had  given  the  Sakhral's  mystery. 

And  thou  hast  proved  that  woman  can — 
Who  has  the  grace,  and  strength,  and  will — 

Work  in  the  wider  field  of  man 
And  be  a  glorious  woman,  still. 


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MOUNT  WHITNEY 

Stern  sentinel  of  Pacific's  broad  embrace 

Thou  standest  drear  and  lone ; 
The  sun's  first  glance  falls  on  thy  snowy  face, 

Thou  hear'st  the  ocean's  moan. 
With  foreheads  bared  the  hills  enclose  thee  round ; 

Winds  woo  thee  o'er  in  storm  and  zephyr  sweet, 
And  summer,  with  her  girdle  loosely  bound 

Like  some  fair  Ruth,  lies  blushing  at  they  feet. 
No  bird  on  thy  bleak  summit  seeks  its  rest; 

No  flower  e'er  blossoms  on  thy  chilling  breast. 
The  nations  rise,  and  die,  and  rise  again, 

And  still  thou  standest  lone,  and  drear,  and  cold, 
Immovable,  unchangeable  as  when 

The  first-born  century  above  thee  rolled. 
Thy  vigil  keep,  O  Mount,  till  on  the  brink 
Of  Chaos  Time  shall  break  his  flight. 
Wrapped  in  thy  solitary  grandeur  sink 

Like  lost  Atlantis,  in  thy  might. 


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WELCOMING  THE  G.  A.  R.  TO 
CALIFORNIA 

Run  up  the  flag  to  its  highest  height 

And  proudly  let  it  wave 
Upon  the  sunset's  wall  of  light 

To  greet  the  true  and  brave. 

There  is  never  a  stripe  on  its  crinkling  folds 

Nor  a  star  its  field  to  gem 
With  the  vaunted  glory  victory  holds, 

But  owes  its  place  to  them. 

Bring  out  again  the  unlimbered  guns, 

And  sound  the  bugle  call ; 
With  roll  of  drums  and  martial  pride 

Salute  them  comrades  all. 

Ah !   They  have  another  welcome  heard, 

And  another  scene  have  they; 
Their  flags  are  battle-dimmed  and  torn, 

Their  guns  had  fiercer  play. 

There  are  empty  sleeves,  and  stumping  limbs. 
There  are  wounds  that  never  sleep; 

And  the  memories  of  lonesome  graves 
Where  nightshade  blossoms  weep. 

Oh,  many  a  soldier's  cheek  will  pale 
Whose  heart  ne'er  beat  with  fear  ; 

Oh,  many  a  comrade  is  "marking  time," 
Who  cannot  answer  "Here !" 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


And  day  on  day  of  the  flying  years, 
In  the  ranks  grow  wider  gaps 

As  down  the  lines  in  the  camp  of  life 
Old  Death  is  sounding  "Taps." 

Run  up  the  flag  to  its  highest  height, 

And  proudly  let  it  wave, 
Upon  the  sunset's  wall  of  light 

To  greet  the  true  and  brave. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


SAN  FRANCISCO* 

Upon  her  thrice  seven  smiling  hills  she  stood, 

Beloved  of  her  patron  guide,  the  good 

St.  Francis ;  with  pomp  and  power  and  pleasure 

rife. 

Richer  than  Tyre  and  Sidon  was  her  broad  estate, 
Fair  as  Mohamet's  dream  of  after-life ; — 
Secure,  behind  her  battlemented  Golden  Gate. 
And  Dawn  slipped  down  and  blessed  the  sleeping 

world. 

But  that  unwonted  silence,  everywhere ! 
No  twitter  of  a  bird  in  matinal  was  there, 
The   dog   cowered   whimpering  at   his   master's 

door  ; 

The  fishes  swimming  seaward  from  the  shore. 
Then  suddenly  awakened,  all  uphurled 
Were  tower,  and  dome,  and  splendid  palace  wall ; 
The  sick  earth  reeled  and  shrank ;  shock  followed 

shock 

Till  splintered  timbers,  dust  and  tumbling  rock 
Piled  the  great  city's  crumpling  streets,  and  all 
Her  mighty  architecture  swayed  and  groaned 
With  crunch  of  wrenching  beams,  and  screak  and 

screech 
Of   twisted    steel.     And    pallid    faces,    blank    of 

speech, 

Turned  helpless  to  the  awesome  reddening  sky. 
From  nowhere  unto  nowhere  rumbling  moaned 
The  earthquake's  passing  sigh. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


"Is  this  the  end?  This— this  our  final  lot?" 
Men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  answered 

not. 
And  then  above  the  tumult  rose  a  doom  more 

dread ; 

A  thousand  sheets  of  flame  leaped  up  as  one ; — 
The  demons  from  the  under  earth  had  spread 
Their  holocaust  to  greet  the  rising  sun. 
And  upward  from  its  terror,  and  despair, 
The  smoke  of  Sacrifice  pulsed  in  the  smitten  air, 
Devouring,  roaring,  miles  of  blazing  death ; — 
A  kingdom  devastated  in  a  breath. 
All  day  the  Queen  of  Evil  laughed,  and  urged 
Her  fire  sons  to  fiercer  rage;  all  day,  all  night, 
That  billowing  wall  of  fire  swirled  and  surged, 
And  lit  far  other  places  with  its  lurid  light. 
Men   fought   it   back   as   gods   might   fight   with 

Titan   foes, 
Fought  hand  to  hand,  fought  face  to  face,  and 

fell 
Unconquered,  lying  where  they  fell.     And  none 

may  tell 
The   heroisms    of   that   time, — SHftf  for   no    man 

knows. 

*     In  the  great  earthquake  and  fire  of  April,   1906. 


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A  LEGEND  OF  SUTRO  HEIGHTS 

Once  when  the  world  was  new, 

Once  in  its  dawns  and  springs, 
When  the  waters  a  language  knew, 

And  the  hills  were  living  things, 
The  Mount  that  is  Tamalpais 

And  this  terrace-bordered  Hight, 
Stood  side  by  side  in  the  wall  of  land 

Which  held  the  seas  aright. 

And  the  Mount  and  the  Hight  were  lovers, 

In  love  with  the  sea  were  they, — 
In  love  with  the  syren  Ocean 

Whose  beauty  before  them  lay; 
Her  emerald  gown  was  broidered 

With  lace  the  mermaids  spun, 
And  her  tawny  bosom  glittered 

With  the  diamonds  of  the  sun. 

They  gazed  on  the  matchless  vista — 
On  the  wide-out-sweeping  zone 

Of  amber-dappled  Ocean, 

And  they  claimed  her  each  his  own. 

A  quarrel  grew  between  them, 
And  the  contest  rose  and  raged 

Till  the  universe  was  shaken 

With  the  jealous  war  they  waged  . 

All  vain  the  angered  Ocean 

Invoked  each  nymph  and  gnome, 

And  beat  her  breast  against  them, 
And  flung  her  arms  of  foam. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


The  sun  and  the  moon  drew  backward 
And  hid  in  their  clouded  light, 

And  the  pale  stars  fled  affrighted 
Back  into  the  aisles  of  night. 

Then  the  king  of  the  hills  and  the  waters 

Arose  in  his  wrathful  might, 
And  kindled  his  red  death-furnace 

Under  the  Mount,  and  the  Hight — 
The  sea-waves  stop  and  tremble, 

The  hills  like  waves  careen — 
And  the  wall  was  rent  asunder, 

And  the  Ocean  rushed  between. 

The  king  of  the  hills  and  the  waters 

Still  stood  in  his  wrathful  might, 
And  he  hurled  his  curse  prophetic 

On  the  riven  Mount  and  Hight : 
"Ye  shall  stand  thus  widely  parted 

While  the  sea-waves  wash  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  ocean  moaning 

For  ever,  ever  more; 
And  thou,  rebellious  Mountain, 

Be  a  barren  waste  and  dumb 
Till  the  world  shall  bring  you  ransom, 

Till  the  East  to  the  West  shall  come." 

The  circling  years  whirled  onward, 

The  birds  forgot  to  sing 
On  the  barren,  nameless  summit 

Under  the  ban  of  the  king. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


One  day  from  the  dust  and  tumult, 

From  the  cares,  and  frets  and  ills, 
Where  standeth  the  busy  city 

On  its  ocean-dented  hills, 
Came  one  and  stood  on  the  Mountain — 

On  the  Mountain  cursed  of  fate. 
He  looked  on  the  broad  Pacific, 

On  the  narrow-bounded  strait ; 
He  saw  old  Tamalpais, 

Black-browed  as  the  frown  of  hate ; 
He  saw  the  ships  of  the  nations 

Come  into  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  the  humbled  soul  of  the  Mountain 
Crept  into  the  soul  of  the  man, 

Swift  in  his  brain  evolving 
The  lines  of  a  mighty  plan. 

He  wove  him  a  wondrous  vision; 

Of  the  desolate  land  he  made 
A  flower-wreathed  dome  of  beauty,  — 

A  sylvan  perfumed  shade. 

He  planted  the  snow  pale  flowers 
And  the  blooms  of  tropic  dye, 

And  a  giant  redwood  forest 

Held  its  arms  up  toward  the  sky. 

The  rare  and  the  quaint  and  the  curious 
Of  the  world  he  hither  brought, 

And  the  wonder-shapes  in  sculpture 
Which  the  master  hands  had  wrought. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


And  he  builded  here  a  temple 

To  the  muses  Time  has  sung, 
Full-stored  with  the  hoarded  volumes 

Of  many  a  clime  and  tongue, 
Where  the  scholar's  hand  might  gather 

From  the  past  its  fading  gleams, 
And  the  poet's  fancy  fashion 

The  thought  in  his  realm  of  dreams. 

And  his  templed  palace  garden, 
With  a  royal  generous  hand, 

He  gave — a  gift — to  the  people 
Of  the  Golden  Western  land. 

From  the  ocean's  lambent  splendor, 
From  his  vision-bowered  strand, 

He  turned  to  the  rock-ribbed  summit 
And  the  glaring  dunes  of  sand. 

He  had  forced  the  earth  to  open 

Her  secret  treasure  door — 
And  back  to  the  earth  he  yielded 

Her  gold  thrice  doubled  o'er. 

The  jagged  rocks  are  shapen, 

To  curious  curving  walls, 
To  granite  carven  stairways 

And  terrace-circled  halls. 

And  curve  in  curve  encloses 
Long  flower  embroidered  lines, 

Where  mythic  gods  and  graces 
Dream  under  palms  and  pines ; 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


Where  the  ministers  of  winter 

Sleep  in  acacian  bowers, 
Drugged  with  the  breath  of  incense 

From  purple-throated  flowers. 

The  west  wind  whispers,  whispers, 

Its  story  in  the  nights, 
And  the  Ocean  chants  her  anthem 

At  the  foot  of  Sutro  Mights. 

The  humbled  soul  of  the  Mountain 
Liveth  no  longer  dumb — 

The  world  has  brought  its  ransome, 
The  East  to  the  West  has  come. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

Proud  California !    Bend  thy  head, 

And  measure,  reverently,  thy  tread; 
And  plant  thy  tallest  pine  to  wave 

Above  the  gentle  stranger's  grave. 
*  *  #  *  *  *  * 

A  rose  dropped  down  into  the  sea, 

And  drowned ; — 
But  every  wave  that  washed  a  lea, 

Or  swept  the  ocean  rourud, 
Came  back  and  brought  upon  its  crest 
A  sweetness  from  the  rose's  breast. 

A  song  bird  on  the  summit  crown 

Of  self-denied, 
Fell  slowly  fluttering,  fluttering  down, 

And  died; — 

But  all  the  hills  and  valleys  rang 
With  music  of  the  songs  it  sang. 

A  woman's  soul  has  crossed  the  size 

Of  mortal  sight — 
A  woman's  hands,  a  woman's  eyes 

Are  closed  in  night; — 
But  all  along  the  way  she  came 
Are  springing  blessings  on  her  name. 

O  rose  !  O  bird !  O  woman's  heart ! 

Dead  heart — dead  flower — and  silent  bird,- 
Ye  gave  us  but  the  fainter  part 

Of  songs  ye  heard : 

The  solemn  nights  have  sung  to  thee, — 
The  trees,  and  winds  and  moaning  sea; 
The  mighty  silences  of  space 
Closed  round  and  taught  thee  face  to  face ! 
No  land  may  claim  thee  to  enshrine, 
Thou  art  the  world's — the  world  was  thine. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


IN   THE    FOOTHILLS    OF   THE   SIERRAS 

The  pine  trees  nod  to  the  oaks  below, 

The  wild  oats  bend  to  the  cliffs  of  snow; 

Noonday's  shimmering,  gauzy  glow 

On  all  the  hills  is  lying — 

And  the  manzanita  berries  grow 

Red  in  its  gorgeous  dyeing. 

The  wood-dove  answers  the  plaintive  call 

From  the  nest  that  is  hid  in  the  chemesal, 

And  the  wanton  humming  bird  devours 

His  feast  from  the  bulky  milk-weed  flowers. 

Threads  of  cobwebs,  glistening  gray, 

Spun  on  the  wheels  of  the  summer's  day, 

Glimmering  go — and  glimmering  stay — 

A  place  to  dream  one's  life  away. 

And  the  saucy  stream  goes  tumbling  down 

To  water  the  flowers  in  a  valley  town. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE   WHEAT    OF    SAN   JOAQUIN 

A  thousand  rustling  yellow  miles  of  wheat, 

Gold-ripened  in  the  sun,  in  one 

Vast  fenceless  field.    The  hot  June  pours  its  flood 

Of  flaming  splendor  down,  and  burns 

The  field  into  such  yellowness  that  it 

Is  gold  of  Nature's  alchemy;  and  all 

The  mighty  length  and  breadth  of  valley  glows 

With  ripeness. 

Then  a  rolling  of  machinery, 
And  tramp  of  horse  and  scream  of  steam 
And  swishing  sighs  of  falling  grain, 
And  sweaty  brows  of  men;  and  then — 
The  Samson  of  the  valleys  lieth  shorn. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THANKSGIVING  AT  MONTARA 

Thanksgiving  dawn  God's  secrets  told 
In  misty  lines  of  pink  and  gold 

Upon  your  hills,  Montara. 
The  lark,  while  yet  the  dawn  was  dim, 
Sang  joyously  her  praise  to  Him. 
Sweet  peas  that  climbed  the  windy  wall 
Shook  down  their  fragrance  unto  all. 
Wee  wild  things  felt  the  shadows  pass, 
And  heard  the  growing  of  the  grass. 
And  lo!    Thanksgiving  left,  that  night, 
The  afterglow  of  God's  own  light 

Upon  your  hills,  Montara. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 

THEY  ALL  ARE  KIN  TO  YOU 

(Ina  Coolbrith) 

The  twilight,  and  the  dawn, 

Sunrise  and  set  of  sun — 
The  summer's  golden  hush, 

All  seasons — all  in  one — 
Belong  to  you. 

The  rose  her  secret  whispers  you 

The  poppy's  dreams,  you  know, 

To  you,  the  mystery  of  the  seas 

The  West  winds  blow,  and  blow, — 
They  all  are  kin  to  you. 

And  that  is  why  you  sit  alone 
Just  at  the  great  sea's  door, 
And  watch,  and  watch  the  tides  come  in, 
And  watch,  and  watch  the  tides  go  out, — 
And  the  white  ships  ever  more, — 
They  all  are  kin  to  you. 


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The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


AT  SAN  DIEGO 

Here  first  on  California's  soil, 

Cabrillo  walked  the  lonesome  sands; 

Here  first  the  Christian  standard  rose 
Upon  the  sea-washed  Western  lands, 

And  Junipero  Serra  first 
Laid  loving  hands. 

What  saw  they  here,  that  venturous  band, 
To  bless  or  touch  with  loving  hand? 
Or  bid  them  pause,  or  dream  to  stay 
Around  this  silent,  sleeping  bay? 

An  acreage  of  many  miles, 

Vast  miles  of  sun-burnt  naked  space, 
Red,  brown,  and  bare,  and  baked  as  tiles ; 

Whose  surface  lay  unchanged  of  face 
As  it  had  lain,  the  hills  among, 
Since  first  Creation's  psalm  was  sung; 
Whose  people  watched  the  squirrels  play, 
And  cared  not  any  more  than  they. 

Not  these  alone,  the  fathers  saw 

Not  these  made  hardships  doubly  sweet^- 
He  never  sees  his  arrow's  flight 

Who  is  always  looking  at  his  feet; — 
Those  holy  fathers,  wiser  they, 

They  marked  the  broad  expanse  of  plains, 
And  mountains  gushing  crystal  life 

Enough  to  fill  its  thirsting  veins ; — 
They  saw,  far  off,  the  mingled  weft 

Of  colors  wrought  from  out  the  soil, 
When  Nature  rounds  upon  her  loom 

The  laborer's  legacy  of  toil. 


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They  served,  and  toiled,  and  built,  and 
But  ever  saw  a  promised  land;         [planned, 
And  heard  its  slowly  rising  swells 
Ring  joyous  from  their  mission  bells. 

And  decades  passed,  and  fifty  years, 

A  century  was  born  and  died ; 
A  nation  struggled  into  birth, 

And  rose  to  midday  of  its  pride. 
And  freedom's  war-wet  staff  was  set 

Beside  that  one  of  love  and  peace ; 
And  suns  of  noons,  and  midnight  moons, 

Unwove  and  wove  time's  ageless  fleece. 
Time  crept  by  the  mission  bells, 

And  back,  and  tied  their  tongues  with  rust ; 
And  touched  the  eye-lids  of  the  priest, 

And  garmented  his  bones  with  dust. 

The  glory  of  the  mission  passed, 
Its  gloom  its  glory  overcast. 
Within  its  corners,  shadow-walled, 
The  bats  made  nest ;  the  lizard  crawled 
Upon  the  sunny  side  to  sit, 
With  soulless  eyes,  and  laugh  at  it. 

But  smile  not  ye  with  scornful  lips, 

Nor  croak  a  prophecy  of  this ; 
There's  nothing  lost  that's  lost,  and  naught 

That  once  has  lived,  has  lived  amiss. 
Nay,  smile  not  ye,  nor  count  that  false 

Which  failed  in  promises  it  gave ; 
For  gold  is  gold,  though  it  go  down 

A  thousand  fathoms  in  the  wave; 
And  brighter-hued  the  blossom  is 

That  blooms  upon  a  grave. 


107 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


In  silence  sleeps  the  land  no  more, 
Its  treasury  of  wealth  is  found ; 

And  all  its  curving  seagirt  shore 
With  queenly  cities  crowned ; 

While  through  its  gateway  come  and  go 
The  sails  of  suns  and  sails  of  snow. 

Progress  to  this  old  new  West 

Has  turned  her  face  and  set  her  seal ; 
Has  bound  the  waters,  broke  the  hills, 

And  shod  the  desert  sands  with  steel. 
O  land  of  sun, — hot,  splendid  sun ! — 

Of  sea-cool  winds,  and  Southern  moons  ! 
Of  days  of  calm,  and  nights  of  balm, 

And  languorous,  dreamy  noons. 
No  seer  hath  need  to  tell  for  thee, 

Thy  daring  and  thy  destiny. 


108 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE  LAST  PRIESTESS  OF  THE  SUN 

Backward-gazing  on  her  ruined  temple 

The  Priestess  stands, 
Fierce,  and  wondering,  and  sullen,  gazes 
On  the  desecration  of  the  spoilers'  hands. 
Dead  are  the  fires  upon  your  altar,  maiden, 
Despoiled  of  all  its  richess  is  your  shrine ; 
Your  sacred  sacrificial  vessel  gives  you 

No  answering  sign. 
And  palms  will  grow  upon  your  temple 

And  still  the  sun  will  shine,      [border, 


THE  BUILDERS 

Ye  builders  coming  late  unto  the  Aztec's  Sea — 
Unto  the  sun-land  Southwest  of  the  West, 

Hail  to  you,  hail !  Your  temples  solemnized  today 
Disturb  no  dead  world's  rest. 

Thrice  hail  to  you  !  Ye  builders  by  the  Aztec's  Sea ; 
Twin  fold  the  blessings  of  your  work  in  stone  and 

wood, — 

Who  helps  to  make  the  world  more  beautiful 
Helps  God  to  make  it  good. 


109 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE  NATIVE  DAUGHTERS  OF  THE 
GOLDEN  WEST. 

When    California    wrought   her   royal    crown    of 

gold— 
The  perfectness  where  in  her  own  proud  fame 

should   rest — 

She  took  the  foot-prints  of  the  pioneers, 
She  took  the  sound  of  battle,  and  the  strength 
Of  manhood  measured  by  the  long-drawn  length 
Misfortune     stretched     for    them     across     the 

years. 
She    took    the    whispering    sighs    of    pines    that 

shake 

Their  needles  down  on  graves  lost  in  the  wake 
Of  time.     She  took  the  heart-sick  patience  and 

the  tears 
Of   women   waiting,   waiting,   waiting,    for   their 

loved 

Who  came  not  back.     And  then,  the  sacredness 
And  permanency  of  her  state-hood  laid 
Upon  this  shrine  of  sacred  things.     Of  these  she 

made 
Her    crown;    and    wrote    around    its    shining 

crest: 
"My  Native  Daughter  of  the  Golden  West." 


110 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


WONDERFUL,  MYSTERIOUS  MEXICO 

Builded  on  the  ruins  of  dead  thrones 

Whose  temple   walls   were   old   when   Thebes 
was  new; 

On  altars  whose  weird  sacrificial  stones 

With  ghastly  offerings  were  crimsoned  through. 

Oblivion  hides   and  holds   thy  secrets  fast — 

The  dust  of  ages  lies  upon  thy  past, 
All  wonderful,  mysterious  Mexico. 

The  conquerors  came  knocking  at  thy  peaceful 

door 
And  met  thy  outstretched  hands  with  sword 

and  flame; 
With  broken  gods  bestrewed  thy  altar  floor, 

And  slew  thee  in  Christ's  loving,  gentle  name. 
But  thy  bold   eagle   clutched   a  serpent   in   the 

slipping  sand, 

And  bore  it  writhing  o'er  his  blood-swept  land, 
All  wonderful,  mysterious  Mexico. 

Thou  land  of  shrines  and  crosses,  legends,  yester 
days; 

From  tropic  splendor  to  eternal  snow, 
Thy  purple  mountains  rim  such  unfound  ways 
Of  wealth,  the  greedy  world  turns  hither  to  thy 

slow 
Awakening;  to  lay  swift  hands  upon  the  treasured 

worth 

Thy  solemn  hills  and  hotland  jungles  hold  — 
Why,  thou  couldst  change  the  commerce  of  the 

earth, 

And  fill  the  coffers  of  the  world  with  gold ; 
Thou  wonderful,  awakening  Mexico. 


Ill 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 

ALASKA'S  WOMAN 
(Mrs.  Mary  E.  Hart) 

Don't  you  hear  the  icy  winter  calling  you? 
The  far  voice  of  your  fierce  snow-blinding  solemn 

North? 
Your   midnight   sun   turns   one   dim   edge   above 

the  snow. 

At  Kotzebue  it's  "54  below." 

The  mighty  Yukon's  roaring  protest  shakes  the 

crouching  hills, 
In  vain  attempts  to  burst  the  icy  barrier  closing 

down 
Upon  its  breast.     Aurora  Borealis  shoots  across 

the  sky 

Red  searchlights  of  her  miracle, 
And  all  the  heaven  with  flaming  splendor  fills. 

The  tundra  crackles  for  your  mucklucks'*  tread. 
Your  parkat  hangs  beseeching  on  your  cabin 
That  far  north  cabin  wall  [wall, — 

(A  timber  wolf  housed  with  her  young  ones  there 

last  fall). 

Your  huskiest  snap  their  teeth  impatiently, 
And  lurch  against  the  traces  to  be  gone. 
The  sleety  blizzard  bellows  forth  its  challenge, — 

daring  you  to  come. 


112 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


And  still  the  sunland  holds  you.  I  am  knocking 
at  your  door; 

The  perfume  of  your  flowers  besets  me  as  I  knock. 

You  have  grown  indolent  with  too  much  shelter 
ing  ease, 

You  could  not  hear  the  wild  North  call  midst  all 
of  these. 

Your  neighbor  leans  across  the  fence  to  speak 
to  me — • 

"Left  for  Alaska  more  'n  a  month  ago?" — What? 
you  don't  say! 

Well  that's  quite  like  her.  Thank  you  Mrs. 

er-er-'much  obliged.  Good-day. 

*  Fur  boots  with  tops  of  knee  or  thigh   length. 

t  A  hooded  fur  shirt, — an  Alaskan  outer  garment 
reaching  to  the  knees,  worn  by  men,  women  and 
children. 

$  A   breed   of   native   Alaskan    dogs. 


113 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


What  £non>  you  of  my  Soul's  inherent  strife 

By  that  calm  faith — untried — which  wells  in  thine- 

How  can  you  from  the  knowledge  of  your  life, 
Write  out  a  creed  for  mine? 


114 


Songs  That  Have  Been  Set  To  Music 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


LOVE'S   WAY 

Love  came  to  my  window  and  tapped  one  day, 
Touched  hands  and  touched  lips,  and  went  flying 

away ; — 

For  Love  is  like  that  alway,  and  alway — 
Love  is  like  that  alway. 

The  world  went  all  wintry,  sad  years  passed,  and 

then 

Love  rested  his  wings  at  my  window  again ; 
1  clasped  him,  and  held  him  so  close  to  my  heart 
I  thought  he  would  never,  could  never,  depart. 
But  Love  slipped  his  light  wings  and  went  flying 

away, 

For  Love  is  like  that  alway  and  alway — 
Love  is  like  that  alway. 

Once  more  Love  came  smiling  and  whispering 

to  me, 
But  I  said  to  him :     "Love,  pretty  Love,  don't 

you    see 
The  window  is  barred,  dear,  between  you  and 

me?" 

And  Love  folded  his  wings  at  my  window  to  stay. 
For  Love  is  like  that  alway,  and  alway — 
Love  is  like  that  alway. 


116 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


GOD  BLESS  YOU  WHEREVER  YOU  ARE 

The  twilight  was  lonesome, — was  eerie, 
The  heavens  showed  but  one  little  star; 

We  parted  in  silence,  my  dearie, — 
God  bless  you  wherever  you  are. 

Wherever  your  footsteps  are  straying, — 
Anear  me,  or  wandering  afar, — 

Remember  I'm  saying,  I'm  praying: 
"God  bless  you !  wherever  you  are." 


117 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE   DRYADS 

O,  I  was  a  dryad,  and  you  were  a  dryad, 

In  the  long  and  long  ago! 

And  so  when  the  leaves  in  the  wild-wood  are 
whispering, 

And  the  trees  wide  shadows  throw, 

I  can  hear  you  calling  me 

In^the  way  it  used  to  be; 

And  I  know  as  we  used  to  know, 
When  I  was  a  dryad  and  you  were  a  dryad 

In  the  long  and  long  ago. 


118 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS 

"What  will  you  give  me?"  I  asked  him — 

My  lover  of  long  ago. 
"What  shall  I  keep  to  remember 

That  ever  you  loved  me  so?" 
"Dearest  one,"  softly  he  answered, 

"We  have  sifted  life's  gold  and  its  dross,- 
That  you  may  not  forget  how  I  loved  you 

I'll  make  you  the  sign  of  the  Cross." 

As  light  as  the  touch  of  the  zephyr 

That  blows  in  the  nights  of  the  South, 
With  my  face  in  his  hands  he  kissed  me 

On  forehead  and  eyes  and  mouth. 
O,  I  might  forget  that  he  loved  me, 

Forget,  too,  the  pain  of  my  loss, 
But  deep  in  my  heart,  and  forever, 

Is  burning  his  sign  of  the  Cross. 


119 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


THAT  DAY  IN  TEXAS 

The  gulf  blew  its  gentlest  breeze — 
The  whisperings  of  some  far  seas, 
The  sunshine  flamed  across  the  land, 
I  felt  the  warm  clasp  of  your  hand 
And  Oh,  the  light  in  your  dar  eyes 
Was  brighter  than  the  sunlit  skies, 
Was  brighter  than  the  sunlit  skies, 
That   day  in  Texas. 

The  years,  the  year,  that  are  to  be 
May  never  more  bring  you  to  me, 
And  days  will  come,  and  days  will  go — 
But  ever  when  the  South  winds  blow 
And  sunshine  flames  across  the  plain, 
I'll  hear  your  voice  and  live  again — 
I'll  hear  your  voice  and  live  again 
That  day  in  Texas. 


120 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


CANST  THOU  NOT  HEAR  ME 

I  failed  thee  in  Love's  dear  respect 

Too  lightly  held  my  plighted  vow, 
I  broke  thy  heart  with  cold  neglect, 

And  smiled  on  loves  so  less  than  thou. 
I  see  thee  again, 
And  my  dream  it  is  fair. 
I  see  thee  as  then, 
With  a  rose  in  thy  hair, 
Thou  art  so  near  me 
Canst  thou  not  hear  me 
Calling  thee,   calling  calling  thee- 
Canst  thou  not  hear  my  heart. 
World-weary,  and  too  late,  I  find 

The  world  but  gave  a  wanton's   dole 
And  thou  alone  of  womankind 

Didst   love   me,   love   with   thy   soul   . 
I  see  thee  again, 
And  my  dream  it  is  fair. 
I  see  thee  as  then 
With  a  rose  in  thy  hair, 
Thou  art  so  near  me 
Canst  thou  not  hear  me 
Calling  thee,  calling  calling  thee- 
Canst  thou  not  hear  my  heart. 


121 


The  Lure  of  the  Desert  Land  and  Other  Poems 


JUST  THIS  ONE  DAY 

We  drifted  idly,  you  and  I, 

The  world  was  fair,  and  blue  the  sky; 

Upon  the  dimpled,  sunlit  stream 

We  saw  the  water-lilies  gleam. 

No  clasp  of  hands,  no  lovers'  kiss, 

Yet  never  was  a  day  like  this 

One  perfect  day  of  earth  and  sky — 

Just  this  one  day,  and  you,  and  I. 


122 


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